


Siren's Call

by Lisandra Faison (Bitsy)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3a Spoilers, Beacon Hills as a literal beacon, But so is Stiles, Chris Argent gets in over his head, F/F, F/M, Loss of Agency, M/M, Magic, Mermaids are a thing, Multi, Original Character - Freeform, Overuse of the "Submerged in Water" trope, Post 3a, Scott's pretty awesome, Siren, Sterek slow burn, True Alpha, Werewolves, and Allison, new pack, sexytiems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsy/pseuds/Lisandra%20Faison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The awakening of the Nematon by Scott, Stiles and Allison has finally become a problem; it's called something to Beacon Hills that's a bit...unconventional. And worrying. Because when people start dying, it's up to the True Alpha to take it down.</p><p>Unfortunately, Scott isn't so sure it should be taken down. Or rather, isn't so sure if <i>she</i> should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into a multi-chapter Teen Wolf fic. I envision this as happening between 3A and 3B. Of course this is written in October of 2013 so who knows what the future will bring? Any glaring grammatical/spelling/punctuation errors are my own, and the result of too much vodka during the editing process.

The small pile of rubble next to the Beacon Hills Reservoir is hardly noticeable from a distance. It resembles...gravel. Pebbles. Tiny little ground-up pieces of anonymous and innocuous rock, accidentally left there by an uncaring tide. But the splashes of red around, glistening and sticky, well. That can't be blood. Definitely not blood that belonged to a living creature. Definitely not a human, once upon a time, maybe. There's no inconvenient corpse, nothing to present to the law. No, all that's left is just the five litres of blood that is usually present in an adult human male, and some rocks.

Oh. And one tiny chunk of rock that looks, completely coincidentally, like the profile of a nose. Part of a mouth, open in a scream. And half of one eye, open in terror.

But that's just a coincidence. Just like the ripple on the surface of the reservoir is a coincidence. Nobody could have possibly seen a rather large dorsal fin moving down into the water. Sharks don't like freshwater, after all. And who ever heard of a shark killing somebody by turning them into rubble?

No. It's all a coincidence. It's all your imagination. There's nothing there.

Except the invisible pulse of the Nematon, throbbing with the ache to _live._

***

Scott McCall is free. And that's a very strange position to be in after all this time.

All secrets are out. All things are known. Everybody is on the same page, and it's nothing short of a minor miracle, honestly. Not just his mom, but now Sheriff Stilinski as well. The freaking _sheriff_ knows about werewolves and kanimas and Darachs and all that mess. God, the only way it would be worse and weirder was if Jackson's dad, the district attorney, knew. But now the burgeoning pack has the sheriff of the county on their side, and it makes things more and less complicated, all at once.

Scott's on his motorcycle, zooming up the highway through the woods on his way to Isaac's new place. Since Isaac had turned eighteen, he'd insisted on buying his own apartment on the edge of town, just as one final fuck you to his dead father. Scott had tried, in vain, to get Isaac to stay at his house, but in the end, even he had to realize that Isaac needed - desperately needed - a place to call his own. Not only for his issues, to claim his space in the world...but because of Allison. 

It's been several weeks since the thought of Allison and Isaac made his stomach twist, or his heart ache. He's managed to let go of the worst of the heartache. He's long since come to grips with the fact that the girl he loves is with his other best friend. (Stiles is best friend number one. Isaac is number two. Or perhaps his second in command. He's not clear on that point exactly. Can an Alpha have two second-in-commands?) He's the Alpha of a growing werewolf pack. He can't let his emotions and his selfish wants interfere with the day-to-day workings of the pack. Because god only knows it's tenuous enough as is, with Ethan and Aiden. And Danny. And Lydia. And Scott's pretty sure he's the Alpha of the only pack in history that only has four werewolves and the rest of everybody is either human or a Banshee. And god only knows that Ethan and Aiden might bolt at any second for any number of reasons.

He lets out a breath, and focuses on the wind against the hallow of his throat, his knuckles. The only parts of him exposed to the air. He might be a werewolf, and thus easily healed in case of an accident, but there's no point taking stupid risks. Or risking a ticket for violating the helmet laws. The sheriff might be on his side, but he'd still give Scott a smack to the head for being reckless and ignoring California law. Smiling to himself, he reaches up, pats his green and white helmet with the flat of his left palm, and speeds up slightly on his way to the apartment. He was there nearly every night, after all, and he knows the way well. There's only one or two things left unspoken between Alpha and Beta, after all. One of which was the subject of Allison Argent. Which is why he can stand it. Isaac seems incredibly self-conscious of the bond between himself and Allison, to the point where he asked Scott, point blank, whether or not he should break it off.

"No," Scott had said at the time. "No. Be with her. Be happy. Both of you. I mean it, I've moved on. It's okay."

But did one ever really move on from one's first love? Was it really ever okay?

The reassuring drone of the motorcycle between his legs distracts him again, reminding the Alpha to live in the now, live in the moment. Allison's current romantic entanglements, Isaac's worry, none of that matters, as long as the _pack_ was whole. Of course, with Derek and Cora hiding out in Colorado, it isn't really whole. Scott couldn't explain it in words, but the loss of the Hale siblings felt like a chunk cut out of his heart. They were part of his pack. Even if they were hundreds, thousands of miles away. 

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and he knows it's Stiles. Stiles is the only one who'd text him right now, when he's on his motorcycle. When he feels it's safe, he pulls his phone out at the next red light, and pops up the text message quickly.

_found a thing_

Leave it to Stiles to be totally mysterious and fascinating all at once. He wants to answer, but the light turns green before he can. A thing. A thing? What kind of thing? A werewolf thing? An Alpha thing? A totally unrelated and weird nerdy thing that makes Scott crazy? He takes off when the light turns green, his mind whirring at a million miles a minute, wondering what Stiles has found. When he finally reaches Isaac's apartment complex, twenty minutes later, he pulls off his helmet, pulls out his phone, and starts the return text while still straddling the bike.

_\- what kind of thing?_

_\- a thing which will interest you as an alpha_ is the return text, and Scott can almost see Stiles' smug face. Rolling his eyes, he continues the chain.

_\- dude stop being so enigmatic_

_-................you just used enigmatic in a sentence i'm so proud_

_\- DUDE_

_\- ok fine a thing which ties into the alpha pack RE: ethan and aiden_

_\- like what????_

_\- tell you in person and delete this convo still don't trust those muscly mofos_

_\- fine_

And he did as Stiles requested, deleting the entire thread of texts. Because as much as Scott was their new Alpha, Ethan and Aiden were still a problem for him. Heck, he didn't even know their last name. Granted, he hadn't asked. But that was mainly out of a lack of opportunity; after Deucalion's odd defeat, he'd let the twins do their own thing. There was an unspoken agreement there, honestly. The twins were still Alphas in their own right, but they both knew that they'd joined Scott's pack, and that he trumped them handily. If he could handle Deucalion, he could handle the twins, in spite of their weird abilities. So they let their powers sit in the background, and subsumed themselves into the new McCall pack. Alphas, but Betas. Better than Omegas, at least. Right?

Every so often, Scott bemoans and regrets the fate that made him True Alpha. Tonight is one of those nights. He doesn't want to boss people around. He just wants to make sure everybody's safe...

Tucking his phone back in his pocket, he taps the access code into the complex's front door, strolling easily up to Isaac's apartment on the second floor. His helmet is peeled off and tucked under one arm as he knocks on the door, a light and happy smile on his face. He's always happy to see Isaac, honestly. He knows Isaac has his back, almost as much as Stiles does. It's like knowing the sky is blue, honestly. A fact of nature that requires no thought on his part, no intervention. And when Isaac opens the door, Scott's smile is totally sincere, and happy. 

"Hey, dude!"

Isaac's returning smile is equally easy, and he pulls his Alpha into a hug, a giant grin on his face. These meetings were the highlight of their week, when they didn't have to pretend, didn't have to work for everything. Isaac was a shy soul by nature, but around Scott, he opened up, was more relaxed. He wasn't overcompensating with an attitude, or curling up and hiding. Scott, for his part, found nothing but comfort and happiness in Isaac's company. He was beginning to understand that the Alpha/Beta relationship went both ways.

"I have pizza rolls," answers Isaac, ushering Scott inside. That easy grin stays that way.

Until Scott sees Allison on the sofa. The grin drops from his face, and he tenses up, fight or flight, unable to help that immediate, visceral reaction. Because Allison's hair is mussed, and her clothes hastily put on, and her lips red and swollen. Clearly she and Isaac have been, at the very least, been making out before Scott arrived. Her entire body smells of arousal, but it's _wrong._ Because she's not turned on because of Scott, but because of Isaac. Scott had gotten used to her sexual response, but only when it was in the context of _him._ So when it's in response to Isaac, her arousal and embarrassment smells totally wrong, like a closet full of clothes that's been left untouched for too long. Musty and different and _wrong._ And it makes Scott's stomach turn, as he looks away.

Isaac glances between Scott, and Allison, and wisely retreats to get those pizza rolls out of the oven. Because...this is his Alpha, and his girlfriend, who is his Alpha's ex-girlfriend. And basically everything is awkward and horrible and ugh. But he was also the one to suggest Scott come over. He...might have suggested something else, too, but now he's too shy to implement it. So Allison is the one to stand up, and point a finger at Scott, while Isaac does his usual avoidance routine, one that he learned from his father, learned it too well.

"You're making this impossible."

Her voice isn't angry, but sad and worried and brave. Allison can't help her feelings for Scott, no more than he can help his feelings for her, and that just makes him feel even worse. So Scott ducks his head, and looks away, away from that accusing finger, and those even worse accusing eyes.

"I don't mean to," he says honestly, sincerely. And it's true. Scott McCall has not a single malicious bone in his body, doesn't want her or Isaac to feel badly about their relationship. "I'm sorry. It just...it hits me every so often. I'm sorry."

Allison is one second away from screaming prevarications at her ex-boyfriend, when Isaac steps in. His face is pink with the heat from the oven, when he takes her hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Allison glances between Scott, and Isaac, and then stares down at the floor. Maybe she's the one overreacting. But she's not sure. After her reaction last year with Gerard, she's learned to distrust her immediate emotional reactions. A fatal flaw in a hunter, she knows, but no worse than a hunter in love with a werewolf. No. Not _a_ werewolf. Two. She's still in love with Scott. Even as she's falling for Isaac. Which is a horrible thing to admit, even without the supernatural aspect of everything. She's completely in love with two different men. And according to every single social and emotional and intellectual mores of her life, it's so wrong. So, so very wrong.

But Scott...He's so good, so right, so pure, that she cannot help looking to him for what to do now. His moral compass is so firmly affixed at "NORTH" that maybe she's not wrong to think what she is. Because Scott nods at her, giving her a little encouraging smile. Say it, Allison, say what needs to be said. Do what needs to be done. And then she looks at Isaac. Isaac, who's suddenly grinning wolfishly at her, and nodding. Her eyes pop wider. And then she's grinning back.

So it's not really a shocking development when they, all three of them, end up on the sofa together. Eating pizza rolls, and arms around all of each other, and trying to figure out what to do. It's a totally a natural progression of everything. Honestly. And both Scott and Isaac are completely ignoring how all three of their heartbeats are rabbiting about.

"It's when you give me that puppy face that makes it so hard," Allison begins. She's in the middle of the boys, sandwiched in between their comforting weight, shoulders touching through her blouse. And Scott's the one that pops a pizza roll in her mouth with a grin.

"I can't help my face," he says, giving her exactly the look he knew made it so difficult. And her arm around his shoulders squeezes in playfully, warning him to behave. 

"I like your face," Isaac chimes in out of the blue. Which gets Scott's eyebrows up. Any other time, a comment like that would have come from Stiles, with a sarcastic follow-up and facetious offers of make-outs. From Isaac, it's one of those amazing non sequiturs that he's starting to become famous for.

Allison swallows and rolls her eyes.

"Isaac, we know you like Scott's face. Okay?"

"I didn't know that!" protests Scott. "Are there any other parts of me you like?"

"Stop it!" Allison gives Scott a well-practiced whack, the kind that girlfriends give boyfriends the world over when they're being ridiculous. And Isaac laughs, he just laughs like it's the funniest joke he's heard in years. Which also earns him a boyfriend whack. The werewolves - both of them the bastards! - immediately take this as a cue to start a tickle fight, with her as their only opponent. Squealing happily, Allison doesn't struggle very hard at all, gasping for breath as she wiggles away from Scott's fingers, closer to Isaac. When they finally stop, they're all three of them breathless, and grinning. And god only knows there's a ton of sexual tension in the room because they're all basically in a relationship already...and now she understands Isaac's suggestion. He's looking at her, gazing soulfully at her (and his face was just as bad as Scott's, honestly, in terms of sheer puppy power).

But then something weird happens.

It feels like Isaac's about to move in to kiss her, but then glances up at Scott. Scott, whose eyes are now suddenly bright red. And Isaac's eyes shift to purest amber gold. Allison goes totally still, some instinct warning her that to move right now would be a _very_ bad idea. Scott's not looking at her at all, but Isaac. Just Isaac, staring into his eyes, as if they're having some sort of mental conversation. And then she sees Scott's single nod.

And that's when Isaac completes the distance and kisses her.

And that's enough for her.

She immediately breaks the kiss and wiggles out from between them, a hard and cold look on her face. And the boys are staring back at her like kicked, yes, puppies. But she's _furious_ right now and she's going to have her say.

"I don't know what the hell just happened there," she says, her voice cracking in the middle from her anger. "But I am not just some _thing_ for you to hand over, Scott!"

"Allison..." Scott begins, but she holds up one hand, cutting him off.

"No, let me finish! I won't be fought over like dogs with a bone, I won't be given away, it's not your place to tell me _or_ Isaac what we can and cannot do. I..."

"Actually, it kinda is."

Scott looks upset, but not angry. Just worried and wanting to clear this up right now, because Allison's about two seconds away from storming out and never coming back, and wouldn't that just go down great with her father?

"WHAT?" Allison actually screeches that at him, her face going red with embarrassment and anger. And now she really is about to storm out, but she's stopped by Isaac's arms around her waist, his face buried in her neck. She goes tense in his arms, but doesn't fight him off. Not yet anyway.

"He's right," Isaac whispers, his breath warm against her earlobe. "It actually is his place to tell me what to do. He wasn't handing you over to me. He was simply giving me permission to go first."

A low, swooping sensation hits Allison in the solar plexus, and her head spins. All of the anger drains out of her, to be replaced with pure arousal. "Oh," is all she says after a moment, feeling absolutely ridiculous now. And Scott smiles up at her. Gathering her courage, she glances first at Scott, and then at Isaac, craning her head a little to see him. "Is this a wolf thing?" she finally manages, a small smile reappearing on her face.

"Yeah," is the answer from Scott. "Alphas go first, most of the time. But I don't want to mess you guys up. So...he goes first."

"Oh my god," she moans, because now Isaac is working on her neck with his lips, kissing her and nibbling lightly. This was _so_ not how she envisioned their evening going. She thought they'd simply talk everything out, maybe figure out a way for, like...a time share option? See them both separately but at the same time? Kind of? That was the only way she had seen it happening, which she figures makes her pretty damn selfish. But apparently, the boys have a different agenda. An agenda that becomes crystal clear when Scott stands up from the sofa, and presses himself against her, looping his arms around not just her waist, but Isaac's as well. And she can feel Isaac's bright grin against her neck.

Oh. Well. Then apparently that's a thing.

"You knew?" she asks Scott, tilting her head to the side so Isaac has better access, licking her lips up at Scott. 

"Werewolf senses," he shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed, but even more horny. She knows his horny face very, very well, after all. "I knew he had feelings for me, but I was still getting over you."

"Blunt," growls Isaac, taking a moment to glance up from Allison's neck, wet and already bruised with two hickeys. "But accurate."

"And then you two were a thing, and I was kinda confused, and then the sacrifice happened, and I didn't want to hurt either of you so I backed off, and..."

"You mean," Allison begins, sounding utterly scandalized. "That the three of us. Have all been wanting the same thing. For months?"

"Why do you think I finally invited you both over tonight?" Isaac has several grins he loves to wear. This one, Allison has categorized as "Duran Duran" because he's hungry like the wolf. "It sure as shit wasn't just to eat pizza rolls."

And that gets a bright laugh out of Scott, who finally gives in to the desire he's had for ages now. Ages. Allison is his everything, his heart and soul, the moon and stars and sunlight and air. He knows what it's like to be without air, he has his whole life. So when he finally kisses her again, it's like finally being able to breathe after a bad asthma attack. And she gasps into the kiss, sucking air in through her nose, while Isaac goes back to her neck and there are suddenly two pairs of hands exploring her body and she feels like she's about to faint.

She's about to have a threesome with the two boys she loves most in the world.

Yup. Fainting. Or at the very least, letting out a deep, needy moan, and going utterly limp against Isaac's body. She's not sure which of them scoops her up and takes her to Isaac's bed. All she knows now is their mouths on her, clothes being peeled off, bedsheets kicked aside...

And it all goes a little fuzzy and wonderful after that.

***

Stiles wakes up a qwerty face, which is no big surprise. Not the first time he's fallen asleep at his keyboard, nor will it be the last. He finds that he falls asleep easier sitting up these days, that the nightmares aren't as dark if he's in front of his computer. Distractions, distractions, distractions, Stiles' life has become all about distractions. Of course, that could have been said about his life _before_ the sacrifice as well. Last night's project: transcribing Talia Hale's personal journals into his computer. Stiles didn't know where they'd come from, honestly. One evening, he'd woken up with them next to his head on his pillow. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, he immediately started reading them. Three thick books, filled with the life of the Hale pack. And he realized about halfway through the first one that there was some seriously _useful_ shit in them. Pack politics, names, dates. And more than that, but how the power of the wolf _worked._ Tantalizing clues, little things. Some of which he knew...others that he did not. That _Scott_ did not. Things Scott needed to know ASAP. Hence the text message last night. And he knows Scott will be over soon to discuss it.

He picks up his phone and checks; no more messages. Weird. Scott usually texts him first thing in the morning, unless he's with...Oh, no. Oh shit.

Thumbs flying over the touch screen, Stiles hopes to god his instinct is wrong, because the last thing they need right now is _that._

_\- dude where r u_

It's a good ten minutes before there's a response, which is weird in and of itself, and only goes to further the thought that Scott's gone and hooked up with somebody. Hopefully not Allison. Because as much as he loves Allison, if they get back together it's going to drive a serious wedge between Scott and Isaac. And now that Stiles knows precisely how important Beta wolves are, that would be a very, very bad thing.

 _\- isaac's_

Stiles stares. And stares. And _stares_ at that answer. Whoa. Um. Well. Shit. If that's the hookup that happened, maybe it wouldn't be as disastrous as he thought. Weird as hell, but it wouldn't shatter the pack. But being the smart-ass he is, he has to nudge just a little further, implying that he knows what they were up to last night.

_\- holy crap really? never saw that coming. what's allison think about that?_

_\- hold on lemme ask her_

"WHAT?!"

Stiles actually says that out loud, staring at his phone in utter gobsmacked amazement. He can't even formulate a response for a long, long time, he's too breathless and stunned.

"What's the matter?" Stiles has forgotten his father is home this morning, and of course he heard that outburst.

"Nothing!" he calls back quickly. Because as understanding as his father is now, he has a feeling that understanding won't extend to Scott's sex life.

_\- i can't believe you're having hot werewolf threesomes and didn't invite me_

There's no response to that, which only goes to prove that, yes, it's actually happening. Happened. Scott, Isaac and Allison had a threesome. Holy fucking shit on a brick, he's not sure if that's completely awesome or completely stupid or completely the result of their new dark hearts. That thought sends a chill down his spine, and he wipes a hand down his face. This is a lot to come to terms with over a text message. 

There's a tap on his door, and his father pokes his head in.

"You don't scream out 'what' over nothing," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Nothing...weird, right?"

Stiles has to laugh. His dad still can't come out and just say 'werewolves' still. No, all that supernatural bullshit is categorized under the catch-all word 'weird.' "No, dad, nothing weird. Scott told me something awesome that has nothing to do with anything weird, and I was surprised. New cool movie announced, that's all." This lie, he doesn't feel bad telling. It's harmless, and protects Scott's stupid romantic fuzzy ass. With his stupid hot werewolf threesomes. Jesus.

"New Star Wars movie?"

"Scott knows nothing about Star Wars."

"...I think that falls under the weird category. You've never made him watch it?" 

"I find it endearing and will allow this one nerd fail on his part."

The sheriff shakes his head and goes about his business, closing the door behind him. Stiles goes back to rubbing his face and shaking his head. Tap dancing Christ on a cracker, Scott's really outdone himself this time. And no, he's not in the least bit jealous that Scott's now had a threesome while he's still holding his V-card. Not jealous at all. Motherfucker. He picks up his phone again and sends another message.

_\- look seriously get your ass to my place we gotta talk about stuff that's not hot werewolf threesomes_

Another twenty minute gap. Holy hell, were they doing it right now? Goddamn it that's just not right. While he waits, Stiles keeps typing in more of Talia's journal, getting more and more fidgety as he does. Finally the phone bleeps. Three new texts, right in a row.

_\- be there in 30 mins_

_\- make that an hour_

_\- ...2 hrs and allison says you're not allowed to call it 'hot werewolf threesomes' ever again on pain of death_

...Mother _fucker._

***

"Can we skip the obvious conversation and move right on to the important stuff?" Scott asks as he walks through Stiles' front door. Stiles just smirks at him, a giant shit-eating grin on his face, and shakes his head no way.

"Oh, no. No. You're telling me everything. Ev. Ree. Thing."

"I'm really weirded out by how much you're nosing into my sex life."

Stiles throws up his hands in disgust, spinning around to stomp his way upstairs, leaving Scott to chuckle to himself and close the door. He troops up after his best friend, still in yesterday's clothes, and dropping his helmet on the bannister, its usual spot. As they settle down, Stiles just rolls his eyes and huffs impatiently. So Scott throws him a bone.

"It was completely and totally awesome and amazing, yes I had sex with Isaac too, yes we're all in a relationship now, and the Andy Samburg Saturday Night Live song is wrong. Okay?"

"Wait, which song? Oh, the...oh, shit, the threeway song, with Lady Gaga oh my god."

And Stiles falls over laughing, because only Scott would bring that up now. But Scott's laughing too, and it feels really good. Laughter was thin on the ground the last few months, and especially after the sacrifice. It banishes the darkness for just a little while, two best friends laughing together over something ridiculous. But finally they're over their giggle fit, and Scott slides down to sit on the floor, his back against Stiles' bed.

"You're not mad?" he asks innocently. The Alpha wolf, asking his human best friend if he was mad. Only in this pack. Stiles rolls his eyes fondly and shakes his head.

"Why would I be mad, dude? You're living the dream. Okay most dudes usually dream of two ladies, but it's still the dream. I just hope your mom's not gonna flip her shit that you stayed out the night."

Scott shrugs at that, glancing down and away. "She gets it. Ever since my dad came back, she knows I'm avoiding him. She told me flat out that whenever I wanted to get out of the house, I could. I've stayed at Isaac's a couple of times, honestly."

"Cool. So...you guys are all together now."

The unspoken words there, 'I just hope none of you get hurt,' are clear as day, and Scott smiles sadly.

"We're gonna be fine," he insists, his voice hardening just a little bit. Which makes Stiles snap his fingers and point at him. Time to change the subject, finally, and Scott lets out a subtle sigh of relief.

"That's right, you are. Because I've discovered something that's really important to how your Alpha powers work."

"From the diaries?" Scott cranes his neck to see the one volume propped open on Stiles desk. Which only makes Stiles snicker.

"The Werewolf Diaries, hot new show on the CW starting next month. Think we could get Ian Somerhalder to star on that one too?"

"No. Come on, Stiles."

Spinning around his chair, still snickering to himself, Stiles pulls up the appropriate passage, which he's got indexed for searchable keywords already. Boy is thorough when he's obsessed. Scott stands up to crane over his friend's shoulder, reading the highlighted lines of text with a slightly perplexed frown. (He always does that when he's reading something, after all.)

"The declaration of intent seals the power, and binds the pack," he reads aloud, practically feeling Talia Hale's stare against his shoulder. But then it sinks in, and he stands up straight. "Wait, that's really a thing?"

"Apparently."

"So when Derek killed Peter..."

"He wasn't just showing off," finishes Stiles. "He literally _had_ to say he was an Alpha at that time, or it would have slipped away again. I'm beginning to discover that a lot of werewolf stuff is psychosomatic and psychological."

"It's what?"

"It's all in your head, dude," explains Stiles, using smaller words, tapping Scott's forehead with one finger. Scott wasn't stupid, but he also didn't have a Grade A vocabulary. It was another one of those sweet, endearing qualities that made Scott him. Scott bats the finger away as Stiles continues. "Like right after we thought Derek was dead."

"And I wasn't healing."

"Exactly. It wasn't just because the wounds had been inflicted on you by an Alpha. It was also because your guilt was literally eating you up and making it worse. So...don't do that again, please? If you need werewolf therapy, we'll find you somebody. Or you can just keep on having hot werewolf..."

"Don't say it," warns Scott, playfully scowling. "Allison was serious. She'll literally kill you, and you know she can manage it."

"Fiiiiine." He turns back to the computer, and highlights another wodge of text, only this time, he reads it out. "The second in command of the pack must be named in the entire pack's presence. The second wolf stands to become Alpha should anything happen to the current Alpha. Lines of succession must be drawn clearly."

And that makes Scott pause. For so long, he'd considered Stiles his back up, his best friend. His second. But apparently in a werewolf pack, humans couldn't be seconds, because then who would become Alpha if anything...he shuts down that line of thinking, because that would mean he'd be dead. And he knows neither of them are willing to discuss that. Apparently Stiles is having similar thoughts, because they're both quiet for a few moments after.

"It's Isaac," says Stiles with an easy shrug. But that shrug hides the obvious hurt. It's always been Scott and Stiles against the world, and now it's not. It's the Alpha And His Second against the world. "It's no big deal. I mean, it's obvious. You're even in love with him now and I cannot believe I just had those words come out of my mouth seriously dude since when have you even liked guys?!"

"Focus, please."

"Sorry."

He mulls that over in his head. Yes, he'd declared himself an Alpha to Jennifer. To Deucalion. To Derek. He'd said it aloud just after it happened, when he'd felt the power surge up in him, when he knew, he _knew_ he was the Alpha now. By all rights, Derek should be his second. But Derek was gone to Colorado, and might not ever come back. He was still pack, he could feel the strong yet delicate bond they shared, even across the miles. Cora was a different story; she was Derek's sister, she was pack, but Scott hardly knew her. There was no real bond, just a link through Derek. Peter...there was no link at all, which made Scott wonder about certain things. No, a strong pack needed a second in command that was _there_ , not in another state. 

But he doesn't say it aloud. Instead, he glances at Stiles.

"So what does this have to do with Ethan and Aiden?"

"You never told them you were _their_ Alpha. Which apparently? Means they can challenge you. Which would be so freakin' bad for so many reasons, I can't even begin to express it in words. I can only flail my arms and say oh my god do that _right now_ before they try to remove your internal organs and why haven't they challenged you yet?"

"Send an email," Scott orders, ignoring that outburst, not realizing he's speaking like an Alpha. But weirdly enough, Stiles moves to obey almost automatically, pulling up Firefox and Gmail. "Include Isaac, Allison, Ethan, Aiden, Lydia, Cora, Derek...and Danny."

That makes Stiles' eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Danny? Really?"

"Danny. Really. Tell them all to meet here tonight at seven. Tell them I'm ordering pizza."

"And?"

"...Tell them it's an official meeting, and I'm naming my second in command."

"But Danny doesn't know..."

"He will after he gets this email."

"...Okay." Stiles composes the email quickly and sends it to them all, shaking his head. "I hope you know what you're doing, Alpha."

"Do I ever?"

***

Chris Argent usually stays home to drink. He's the kind of man who can hold his liquor, but hates being intoxicated in public. His reputation as a hunter usually gets him into too much trouble, and an impaired hunter was a dead hunter.

Although maybe now that wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

He's lost his wife, his father, his clan. He's seen his world turned upside down, his code first broken, and then shattered, and then rebuilt into...what? Allison has her ways, so different from any other Argent in the world. Not least of which is her unbroken string of _werewolf boyfriends._ It's something no hunter should ever have to do. Because as far as he's concerned, Allison is already dead. It's only a matter of time before either Scott or Isaac snaps, bites her, and she'll do the honorable thing and...

That's a thought he won't finish. Because now he's not so sure she would. She probably would live on as a werewolf, refusing to end her life. Which would be even worse than her being dead. 

Slumped in a corner booth, in a dark bar, Chris Argent drinks. A good bourbon is hard to come by in Beacon Hills, so he settles for a bad bourbon. It burns going down, but the six other empty highball glasses on the table show that he just doesn't give a single shit. This is why he usually stays home to drink, so nobody else can judge how much he can consume in a go. But then again...anybody judging in a bar needs to freaking leave the bar. Heh. He snorts with private laughter into his glass, a wry and hateful smile on his face. Go on. Judge away. Judge the man who's lost it all, and is turning to the bottle to help.

There's suddenly a bright glare of light across the room, and for one drunken moment thinks a spotlight is indeed being turned on him for everybody to see. But his paranoia proves wrong, when the bar's owner steps up on a little makeshift stage. Huh. He's never noticed that before, it must be new.

"Good evening," the man says nervously into the mic. "Tonight, we're trying something a little new here at Seal's. I'd like to introduce to you, our new singer for tonight's live entertainment."

And she appears. And Chris Argent knows he's in a hell of a lot of trouble.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Cora rolls her eyes, and even through the video artifacts, Stiles can see her annoyance. Honestly, Cora's much more fun to annoy and pester now that she's over five hundred miles away and can't smack him upside the head.

"Why did you email us?" she says bluntly, her face flat and emotionless, except at her almond-shaped eyes. They were almost feral with disgust and anger. And Stiles smirks at her through the webcam. Yup, he's still got it, pissing off the Hale family one member at a time since twenty-eleven.

"Because Scott's having a pack meeting tonight, and he said to email you."

"We're not part of your pack."

That actually hits Stiles in the gut like a physical blow, and he winces. But then he gathers himself, leaning back in his computer chair with his hands behind his head. He's really not wanting to inspect the reason why that hurt so much right now. He's telling himself it's because of Cora, and how quickly they'd bonded. Or sort-of bonded, anyway. Closer to 'didn't completely hate each other on sight.'

"Wow. Did you take home the trophy for blunt rudeness in school or are you just an Olympic-grade amateur?"

"Olympic-grade," she deadpans back, reaching up to disconnect the Skype session.

"Wait!" begs Stiles, sitting up and forward again. "Don't just hang up! Look, when Scott tells me to email you, I'm gonna email you. If he wants me to text you, I will. If he tells me to drive up to Mountain freakin' High and Valley freakin' Low and drag back a couple of tall dark and snarky werewolves, I'll do it."

Cora stops, listens, and eventually lowers her hand. And a lot of the anger leaves her face, understanding and something resembling respect replacing it.

"You're obeying your Alpha."

This kind of knocks Stiles for a loop, but he doesn't let it show. Fortunately, she's far enough away that she probably wouldn't be able to hear his heart skip a beat at that revelation. "Exactly. Even if it means contacting Hales hiding out in the tall pine forests of Colorado. Scott's having a pack meeting, Scott says you're pack, so hey, guess what, you gotta listen to my smooth baritone over a laptop's speaker."

"He's not _my_ Alpha."

Stiles can't miss the unmistakeable emphasis on the word 'my' in that sentence, and he can also hear everything that's left unsaid in there. Cora's not rejecting Scott out of hand, but knows that she's got no real spark, no real bond left with the Beacon Hills pack. When it was her brother, she was connected through him, but that's obviously over now. Or maybe not, maybe she was making that decision on her own. After all, the declaration of intent is part of...oh. Stiles gets shivers all over, because he gets it now. Cora has just declared herself Omega.

"...Does Derek know you feel that way?" he asks quietly, a concerned look on his face. And she looks surprised, like she wasn't expecting him to understand that.

"...No," she answers after a beat, glancing away from the camera.

"Cora..."

"You don't understand," she says quietly, still not looking up. "I've been Omega for most of my life. I've been running and hiding and alone since I was a child. Being back with Derek, and Peter, and all the others...it was like claws across a blackboard to me. It just felt so _wrong._ Like people were in my head, in my body, squeezing my lungs closed, I couldn't really breathe..."

His mouth feels dry, and he licks his lips, swallows, trying to flood his mouth with moisture. God, it sounded like she was having panic attacks, the whole time she was around. Knowing what he does now, knowing a bit more about how the werewolf psyche operates, it takes one hell of a lot to make a wolf _want_ to be an Omega. No, want is the wrong word, it's need. Cora needs to be Omega for her own sanity. Born to a large and powerful pack, thrust out on her own too young. The mind of the wolf twisted so badly that it actually craved loneliness, only understood powerlessness. And Stiles heart breaks for Cora, understanding her so much better now.

"If you ever need protection, come to us," he begs quietly. "We won't make you be pack. I'll tell Scott..."

"No," she answers simply, finally looking back up. "Don't tell him anything. This is what Omega means, Stiles. I can handle it with Derek. I can be around him. He's one step away from Omega himself. But I'll make sure he calls you back tonight. He's at work right now."

"...Derek got a job?" Okay, he can momentarily drop the subject of Cora's pack status in the wake of that revelation. "What's he doing, lurking professionally? Brooding? Wearing leather for profit?"

"He got a job at a lumber mill's office. He's their new administrative coordinator."

And for once in his life, Stiles is speechless. He's never been able to picture Derek doing anything but growling, being grumpy, and rocking the gorgeously handsome and yet still creepy vibe. Trying to reconcile the Derek Hale he knows with Derek Hale, professional admin coordinator, is just way too much cognitive dissonance for him to process. Cora rolls her eyes again, the snarky mask back in place.

"Okay, if you're fantasizing about my brother in a suit and tie, I don't want to know about it."

"I wasn't!" he protests. "Until you said that."

"Eugh. Get a room."

"Oh, if only he'd invite me," he sing-songs, putting on a little falsetto voice and fluttering his eyelashes, like a bad parody of a girl with a crush. That gets a derisive snort out of Cora.

"Gross. That's my brother, Stiles. Although after everything he's been through, maybe he should switch teams."

Both Cora and Stiles smirk at each other wickedly across the miles, because there's nothing better or funnier than poking gentle fun at Derek. Especially behind his back. Hey, if a little sister and an annoying friend can't manage it, nobody can. It's just how things are supposed to be.

"Meeting starts at seven, our time. So eight for you," Stiles finishes, still grinning. "Have Derek call us. He needs to hear this. By all rights, it should be him instead of Isaac."

That gets Cora's attention once more, and she looks very surprised.

"You're not Scott's second?"

"I can't be. I'm not a werewolf, remember?"

"There can still be human seconds. It's rare, but it happens. Usually in those cases the second dies with his or her Alpha, though, and another member of the pack steps up."

"Yeah, can we not talk about Scott and me dying? I've already got enough nightmare fuel in my life, I don't need that."

Cora mercifully drops it, but looks really thoughtful, as if Stiles' outburst was not a thing for her. Which it probably wasn't. God, and he thought Derek could be cold and dismissive. Although the news that he could be a second in command to a werewolf pack, even as a human, was startling. Maybe he should have another quiet word in Scott's ear. But did he really want that? He always had his best friend's back, but this was getting into territory he didn't quite know how to handle yet. Cora interrupts his reverie with another little snort.

"Whatever. Look, I gotta go. Pretty Little Liars is coming on."

"TiVO that shit, girl! We gots things to discuss still. Like your brother in a suit and tie."

"Get a life, Stiles."

And then she disconnects without letting him get another word in. Story of his life, man.

***

It takes a lot to scare a werewolf. 

Although in this case, it's simply seeing an email address. Heavenly.Haze at gmail. And Ethan's blood runs cold. Because that's Danny's email address, and it's been included in the CC of the pack meeting call. There's a flurry of reply alls, various people agreeing to the time of the meeting, asking what kind of pizza, are we doing anything else tonight, I have homework...

But nothing from Danny. Silence. Which is honestly worse than a reply full of confusion and alarm. Ethan's dreading the sound of his phone now, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He actually does get a text message about half an hour later...but it's from Aiden. Two words. 

_\- You ok?_

As if you wouldn't know, brother. No. No he's not in the least okay. Because he just got outed by his Alpha to the boy he loves. The boy he's deliberately hiding from, the perfect boy, the beautiful boy who doesn't know he's a werewolf. And he has no recourse, because his Alpha has made the decision. If it had been anybody but Scott, Ethan would have ripped their kidneys out through their trachea. But...Scott...god damn it. God _damn_ it.

He checks the time. Two hours since the email was sent, and three hours until the meeting. Fuck it. He's going for a run.

Leaving his clothes behind, leaving his phone behind, Ethan _shifts_ in broad daylight, just outside the cabin he and Aiden are sharing. Since Deucalion had fled Beacon Hills, and Kali and Ennis had died, he and Aiden had no choice but to go slightly feral. They had no IDs, no credit scores, no proof of who they were. That had long since been burned and buried and purged and forgotten, at Deucalion's insistence and Ennis' skill. Ethan and Aiden have no past...and very little in the way of a future. They've pinned their hopes on Scott's star, mainly for the purpose of being with their respective lovers. But they're not really a part of the True Alpha's pack. Not really. They're there, they're around, but they're not officially pack. And maybe they never will be again.

As he hits the ground with his forearms, bounding off into the underbrush of the preserve, he wonders once again why Scott hasn't made the declaration yet. Is he _begging_ to die? Is the True Alpha a quietly suicidal man? The longer it gets put off, the more likely a challenge will be made. Most likely from Aiden. Ethan's been holding him back this whole time, because he didn't want Danny and Lydia caught in the crossfire. Not to mention the casual sniffing around by Peter Hale. Ethan's wolfy form shudders with disgust at the thought of him. There's not supposed to be such a thing as a "Former" Alpha. There's only supposed to be dead wolves. What Peter did the night of the Worm Moon was an abomination, almost as bad as a Kanima. The dead are supposed to remain that way. He's just glad Aiden hasn't made the connection yet, between Peter and Lydia. Oh, he knows, but he doesn't understand. If he understood, he'd be attempting to kill Peter yet again. And while Ethan knows that nobody would mourn the loss, Peter is still a Hale. And they don't need to be picking that fight. Not while Scott's still solidifying his power. Not while the True Alpha can still revoke their status, and send them tumbling back to being Omegas. No such thing as former Alphas... 

He tilts back his head and howls in frustration, his snarls piercing the still, cold air. 

The slender thread keeping him whole, as a member of the pack was about to snap, because he knows what will happen next.

Danny. Danny looking at him, with fear and disgust in his eyes, with revulsion. Danny seeing him not as a human being anymore, but a monster. Ethan had always prided himself on not needing an anchor to contain himself, to control his shifting. But now that's all changed. Danny, his beautiful Danny, has become his anchor to humanity, and if that's lost, Ethan doesn't know what's going to happen to him. He's terrified. The big bad Alpha...is frightened.

So he runs. He runs off his fear, his frustration, his angst. Anybody would be able to track him by scent alone; he's throwing off enough of a stink to be notable even to humans. Hunters would spot the trail blind. A wounded animal smells differently, puts down a different track. Part of him _wants_ to be found, to be killed. Because without Danny, he's lost. For two hours, the wolf loses track of time, lives only in the now. But the human side eventually reels the wolf back in, forces him to get back to the cabin, to get dressed, to face his doom.

He's so caught up in himself as he returns that he doesn't realize that Danny is standing on his front porch, hands behind his back, peering off into the forest. And Ethan is so goddamn surprised that he actually yelps, yelps loudly, like a wolf caught in a bear trap, still half-shifted. He's hidden in the shadows of two trees, his red eyes glowing out from between them, like something out of a fairy tale. And he freezes in place, because Danny has looked his way.

There's no fear in Danny's eyes, on his scent. No disgust. Just worry. And Danny steps forward, closer to the monstrous form of his lover.

"Ethan?"

Ethan whines, whimpers pathetically in answer, shrinking back and away. Damn it, he should be long over his disgust at what he is by now, he shouldn't be afraid of this revelation, this discovery.

"Ethan, come on...stop. Please? Please talk to me."

And that's when Ethan figures it out. Like a key clicking in a lock, it dawns on him exactly why Danny's not turning on him, not freaking out. He still doesn't step out of his safe place, still on the verge of fight or flight, but forms a human-enough mouth to speak.

"When did Jackson tell you?" he asks quietly, his voice deep and growling. And Danny nods, confirming Ethan's guess.

"Three weeks after he got to London," is the answer, a small, sad smile curving Danny's lips up. "Told me to stay away from McCall, as if I needed that advice. And Derek Hale, although that was harder because have you _seen_ him?"

A deep, guttural snarl leaves Ethan's throat, and Danny looks startled. 

"I'm joking!" he adds hurriedly, laughing nervously. Yeah, don't say you're attracted to another wolf, Mahealani, bad idea, memo to self, duly noted, right. "But yeah. I've known about werewolves for about four months now."

This is such a weird and appalling revelation that Ethan shifts completely back to human form, stepping out of the trees completely naked. Danny's eyes go wide, and his eyebrows go up, and in spite of the seriousness of the conversation he grins broadly. And Ethan feels a strange warmth flood his stomach, his cheeks, and he grins back. He can't help it. Seeing Danny smiling always gives him that fluttery feeling.

"I didn't figure you out until just after the recital," Danny continues, stepping closer to his boyfriend. "Since Jackson didn't know you, he didn't warn me. But he gave me enough clues to go on. And...yeah."

"Danny..."

No more waffling. Ethan steps forward and pulls Danny into a deep, long kiss, his hands cupping Danny's face affectionately. In this moment, he can feel honestly grounded, human, like he can forget his bloody past. Oh, god, that's going to be a much harder conversation than the werewolf thing...but it doesn't really matter. Because Danny knows. Knew. And isn't rejecting him. That's the prize, that's his redemption.

He feels Danny trembling against him, and he pulls back. Fear? No. Arousal. Danny's pupils are blown wide with lust, and he's bright tomato red.

"As much fun as naked kissing is, maybe we should go inside to do it?" he asks, his voice strained. And Ethan can't help the bright laugh that leaves him, taking Danny's hand and pulling him into the shadowy cabin. Yes, they have a pack meeting to get to...but that can wait a little bit. They've got twenty-five minutes before they're late. So...half an hour of privacy. They'll be late. And for damn good reason.

***

"Melissa, are they all gonna be at your house?"

"Yep. Pizza and all."

The Sheriff lets out a loud, very obvious sigh over the telephone, and Melissa McCall can almost see him sagging and nodding with relief. She doesn't exactly feel sorry for him, but she definitely empathizes. When she'd first found out about Scott and what had happened to him, it had been terror and ignorance driving her reactions. But the Sheriff of the county had no such luxury, he couldn't give in to his worry or his prejudice. She'd tried to give him all the knowledge she could, but she was sure so much had been scrambled, jumbled. She'd told him most of it while tied up in a root cellar, after all. And their subsequent conversations were necessarily hushed and furtive. For so, so many reasons.

"So you're playing host to a bunch of teenage boys, huh? Oh, brother. Should I send a squad car now or wait until the phone calls come in from the neighbors?"

Melissa chuckles over the phone, and her free hand reaches up to twist one of her curls around a finger. And then she looks horrified at herself, realizing what she's just done. Good lord, she's acting like a teenager herself. Thank god he can't see her blush right now.

"I say send it now, we can preemptively put out any literal fires they may set."

"Oh god, don't tempt fate, Mel."

She laughs again, brighter and longer. Oh, damn it. She really was in trouble.

"Paul, you know they're not gonna actually be setting fires."

"Do I?"

She just hums noncommittally, because she can still hear the doubt in his voice. Poor man, to have his world so thoroughly turned upside down within the span of a month. She can only imagine what he's coping with. When she first learned, all it did was shed new light on some of the more mysterious injuries she'd seen over the years. Paul Stilinski was...god, he was seeing _murders_ in a whole new light, crimes sitting in cold case files, animal maulings and gruesome deaths. And then he had to _pretend he didn't know._ He probably had several cases sitting on his desk right now that, with one simple word - werewolves - he could solve easily.

But then he probably wouldn't be sheriff much longer. In fact, he probably wouldn't be allowed out of a padded room for several years. God knows Melissa had that fear for her own self.

But Paul interrupts her thoughts with one simple sentence. "Mel...can we meet up for coffee or something?"

She has been waiting for Paul Stilinski to say those words to her for the better part of five years.

"Yes," she answers immediately. "Where? When?"

"Does now work for you? Starbucks on First?"

"Yes, god yes. I don't need to be here for Scott's little gang gathering. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you."

His voice sounds so...god, she's not sure what it sounds like. A mixture of defeated, and yet hopeful, and yet worried, and wow he really wasn't taking things well at all, was he? Her heart skips a beat, and then restricts in her chest. The overwhelming instinct to run to this man's side and give him as much comfort as she could was making her a little trembly.

"Of course," she murmurs back, worried about him. "It's gonna be okay, Paul."

"Yeah. See you in fifteen."

And then he hangs up, which causes Melissa to spin immediately to her dresser and its vanity mirror. New blouse. Gotta touch up the lips. Earrings? Hair! Oh god, she's still got her scrunchie in from work, that won't do...

She looks up in the mirror. And she shrieks a little bit, jumping a foot and a half. Because her ex-husband is lurking in her doorway, leaning on the frame with his hands in his pockets and a hard, unreadable look on his face. Melissa spins around, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"Damn it, Kevin! What the hell?"

Kevin McCall doesn't move, but his frown deepens, making his uneven jaw ripple a bit. What had once been an endearing feature now makes Melissa's muscles clench with revulsion. What the hell did she ever see in this man? She covers her feelings of having him in _her_ house, and turns back to her vanity dresser, continuing her tirade. "Listen, big shot, just because your bosses give you carte blanche to spy on private phone conversations, doesn't mean that applies to your ex-wife. In fact, I'm pretty sure people are getting busted for just that thing these days. Go away."

"Don't need to be here for Scott's gang meeting, huh?"

A chill runs up Melissa's back, as she recalls her flippant words to Paul. She slowly rounds back to face Kevin again, her hands lowering from her hair, as she glares at him.

"That was a joke and you know it."

Kevin pushes himself off the door frame, his face still hard. He knows something is up, and it has everything to do with Scott and that Stilinski brat. Both brats, father and son.

"What I _know_ is that Scott's little girlfriend ignited a canister of tear gas in an enclosed area with three federal agents in the room. She's lucky I haven't charged her with use of deadly force. I'd make sure the charge stuck, too, and that she'd get tried as an adult. After I finished with her father. And then I'd..."

"Stop!" Melissa spits, her cheeks growing red with impotent anger. "Just like you, isn't it? Always with the threats to get your way. You-..."

"She assaulted three FBI agents, and-...!"

"She's a kid! She was scared, you were-..."

"She's old enough to know-..."

"She's not even Scott's girlfriend anymore, they broke up, but you've got to just come back here and-..."

"There are _murders_ here, Melissa, and that incompetent boyfriend of yours is doing fuck-all about it!"

"Oh, so this is about _Paul_ , I should have known, Jesus you're like a child! A posturing, grabby little child who can't-..."

"It's not about Paul, it's about me doing my job!"

"It's _ALWAYS_ about your job, isn't it?"

Their voices were getting louder and louder, as they screamed and screamed and screamed. It was like being back in that toxic marriage again, back when she was helpless and isolated, no job, no outside interests, just an angry husband and a small baby boy to take care of. Kevin always did this to her, always made her feel like she was two inches tall and undesirable, like she was lucky to have anybody in her life, let alone him. And he just drives that lesson home again as he steps even closer to her, a good six inches taller than she is, out-massing her by a good seventy pounds. She can't help but flinch away as he looms over her, a furious look on his face.

"Stop."

Scott's voice sounds from the door, and Melissa almost sags with relief. She resists the urge to run to her son, hide behind him. That's a first, it was always Scott hiding behind her whenever these blow-out fights happened. Instead, she stands up straight, and doesn't move. And Kevin...Kevin mercifully stops, and turns back to his son.

"Scott..."

"I told Allison to use the gas can against you," Scott says calmly. "It was my idea from the start. Charge me instead."

And that instantly takes the wind out of Kevin's sails. Melissa uses his sudden shock to slide past him, grabbing her purse on the way out the door.

"I'm meeting Sheriff Stilinski in ten minutes," she explains to Scott, her voice calm and unshaken. God, the effort that takes! She's fine with sucking chest wounds, and werewolf shenanigans, but her ex-husband just instantly reduces her to a quivering mass of rage. "For coffee. I think, Scott, on the whole? That maybe you should tell your friends to meet elsewhere tonight."

"...Yeah, mom. Good idea."

Scott's still staring his father down, and without breaking eye contact, he leans down and kisses his mother on the cheek, puts a steadying hand on her back. His hand is warm, and solid, and subtly pushing her away, down the hall. Go, he's saying to her. I've got this. You don't have to fight him alone anymore. And a grateful Melissa flees, running down the stairs and out the door. And she's cursing the day she ever signed the divorce decree that left Kevin's name on the house's title deed.

Leaving Scott to continue to stare down his father.

"Scott, son..."

"No," he interrupts, before Kevin gets anything else out. "No, Kevin. That's not how it's going tonight."

Agent McCall flinches at the use of his given name; he knew that Scott was growing, but he still wasn't prepared for that particular emotional blow. In all the years of bitter recriminations and fights, Scott has never called him anything but "Dad." Apparently that's changed now. Scott continues, his own uneven jaw a mirror of his father's, hard and unyielding.

"You're the one who's leaving. Tonight. You're packing up your stuff, and you're finding a hotel. You were kicked out of this house a decade ago. You have no right to be here. I checked. You might own fifty percent of the place...but you have no cohabitation rights. You have to submit a request to the judge, who then approves your move-in. And that can only happen if something happens to mom."

"Which it has. I did do it by the book. I submitted that request when she was kidnapped..."

"And now she's not," Scott nearly growls. Without Allison as his anchor, he nearly slips, his control bubbling over like a pot on too-high a boil. But then he thinks of the rest of his pack, and how screwed they would be if he allowed himself to slip in front of his father...and there's not a speck of red in his eyes.

"The wheels of justice move slowly," is Kevin's almost smug answer, because he's been waiting for this opportunity, to get Scott alone and talking to him. "I got a temporary move-in order the night she went missing. Until I hear otherwise, I'm allowed to be here, Scott."

"That's a load of crap and you know it," Scott says calmly. And his father visibly bristles, the anger flashing in his eyes. When Scott was a child, that anger made him cower, made him flee. Now...huh. Weird. Kevin McCall's anger has no more power over him. Maybe facing down a Kanima, a Darach and the Demon Wolf has given him the tiniest dose of perspective. "You're moving out tonight. Because I say so. And if you don't, I'll be filing a complaint with your superiors in Virginia. Harassment. Stalking. Verbal abuse."

"You do and I'll charge Allison." He plays his trump card, the one he knows, knows will get Scott to back down. Much to his surprise, Scott doesn't even flinch. Instead, his all-too-grown boy narrows his eyes, and calmly shakes his head in denial.

"No you won't. Because nobody will believe that a seventeen year old girl managed to subdue three grown men, and trained FBI agents. Who left loaded and primed weapons on a desk in easy reach of said seventeen year old girl. If you want an inquisition into your mistakes that night, go for it."

"...Inquiry."

"Huh?"

"The word you're looking for is inquiry, not inquisition."

"Oh. Okay. Inquiry."

The two men stare each other down for a beat longer, and Kevin is honestly a little impressed. Scott hit on the exact reason he hasn't charged Allison Argent, and never will. It was indeed his mistake that he left those weapons on the table for her to grab. He had been so smug in his power over the kids that he hadn't even considered that one of them would make a move like that. That's the kind of mistake that can lead to immediate termination. He was just lucky that his fellow agents had drawn the same conclusion and kept their mouths shut.

"Stalemate," he mutters, making Scott's eyebrows raise.

"No. Actually not. Because I just told you, you're leaving. And that's final."

There's something weird about Scott's voice, there's a harmonics to it, a feeling behind it, that actually makes Kevin want to obey. It's like getting an order from his boss. Or the president. Somebody with the actual authority behind their words, somebody who's automatically obeyed simply because of their status. Somebody who takes that status for granted, because of course people will jump to when they speak. Kevin's pupils constrict, and his jaw goes a little slack.

"I'm leaving," he agrees woodenly, knowing he's defeated. Well...almost defeated. He still has one ace up his sleeve.

Scott knows his father, however. And knows his body language. And his scent now, too. That's the scent of a conniving little shit. He knows it well, he's smelled it off of Peter Hale enough over the last year to make it unmistakeable.

"If you've bugged the house? I'll find it. And I'll take pictures of it, and post them all over the internet. So everybody in the world knows what a current FBI bug looks like."

It's a shot in the dark, but he's immensely gratified to see his father actually go pale, all the blood draining from his head. Bingo. Score one for the True Alpha.

"That's a federal offense, son."

"So is bugging your ex-wife's house."

Kevin's shoulders stiffen, and then he's brushing past his son to the guest bedroom. Scott doesn't bother stopping him, or asking what he's doing. It's obvious. He's packing up to leave. And even through all his anger, his protective instinct, he feels no triumph over this confrontation. He just feels tired. The darkness sneers at this feeble threat, urges him to rip, to tear, to take his father's throat out with his claws...Scott closes his eyes and lets out a breath.

And pulls out his phone to text Stiles.

_\- change of plan meeting at your place now. let everybody know._

***

"Where's Danny and Ethan?"

"On their way."

Aiden looks a little too blank, a little too feral, although the limp slice of pepperoni pizza in his hand makes him seem like much less of a threat. And Lydia, curled up against his side, munching on her own half-slice. (It was her compromise, after her initial assessment of, "Really, do we have to have just carbs and meat? Salads are a thing, you know. Even werewolves need roughage.") If Stiles was upset about seeing Lydia cozy and snuggly with Aiden, he was hiding it very well. 

Scott shrugs easily at Aiden's words, hoping that it is indeed the case, and takes his own slice of pizza. His second slice, actually; all the others had waited for him before digging in. Allison and Isaac had kind of set it up that way. It kind of rankled at Scott's egalitarian soul, in a very quiet way. He wasn't going to put a stop to it, because he understood that's how things worked now. But his real need, his real want, was simply to provide for and protect his friends. Friends first. Pack second.

He snuggles down next to Allison, taking simple pleasure in kissing her cheek again, intimate and casual, like they had been in the past. Getting back together with her is an amazing thing, but he still feels slightly disconnected from her. She isn't his anchor anymore, after all. Maybe it's just the newness of the situation. Or maybe he's over-thinking things. Like Stiles said, it's all in his head.

Stiles finally turns the laptop to face the room, and the disinterested face of Derek Hale appears. He isn't even in his trademark Henley. He's in a button-up white shirt, complete with tie, which is causing Stiles to smirk like a demon. Scott's the only one who notices this, and makes a mental note to have a chat with Stiles in private again.

"Hey, Derek!" says Scott, waving a little bit. Derek just grunts impatiently at that. Yes, yes, get on with it McCall, he's busy. It's amazing how much Derek Hale can say with a simple grunt. "We're waiting for..."

Of course, that's the exact moment that Danny and Ethan finally walk in the front door, reeking of sex and condoms and lube. Aiden's nose wrinkles, and even Scott's taken aback by how strong the scent it. Isaac's eyes go wide, and he blushes bright red. Ethan ignores it, sitting himself down on the floor next to his brother. Danny, on the other hand, approaches Scott.

"What you did was a dick move," he says simply, no anger in his voice. "If Jackson hadn't warned me, you would have outed Ethan against his will. I'm really pissed off at you, Scott. I thought you were better than that."

"Wait, he didn't know?" interrupts Lydia suddenly, turning a sharp look on Ethan. "How could you not tell him? You said you were gonna tell him. I thought you said you were in love with him!"

Silence. A long, stretching silence as everybody in the room comes to grips with Lydia's blunt statement. Oh. Oh, well then. Danny slowly turns back to Ethan, Scott momentarily forgotten. 

"You told her that?"

"Oh please," scoffs Lydia. "I'm totally his best girlfriend now, we've bonded completely. We've gone _shopping_ together, I'm determined to get him up to speed to date you, Danny. You're a total catch, and Ethan can't just keep going around in all black like something out of an Anne Rice novel."

Danny bemusedly regards Lydia with a doofy smile, remembering that she did this all the time with Jackson, too. Apparently she'd adopted both himself and Ethan as her new best gay friends, and he finds he doesn't mind that at all. Glancing around, he notices the rest of the pack are all snickering and smirking into their hands, even Scott. Even _Derek._ Derek Hale is trying to hide a smirk at this twist of events. And Danny just sighs, turning back to Ethan.

"You love me?"

"Can we talk about this later?"

Which of course causes Lydia to groan impatiently, and the rest of the pack to burst out into delighted giggles. Danny gets it...but he can see Ethan bristle, his hackles raising almost visibly, like the wolf he was. And weirdly enough, it's Aiden who puts a calming hand on Ethan's shoulder.

"Not laughing at you. You know the difference. Come on, relax. They're happy for you guys."

Ethan relaxes at his brother's words, and then grins up at Danny, nodding slightly in answer to that question.

"Yes. I love you."

The rest of the pack has to put up with some serious kissing for a few minutes before anything else can resume. Derek forgets he was amused a second ago and leaves the computer screen, obviously going to get a drink or something before returning. The others just laugh delightedly, taking a moment to breathe, to enjoy themselves, to wallow in the feeling of a close and friendly pack.

Finally, though, Derek returns, and clears his throat over the Skype connection.

"Can we please get on with it?" he growls, his eyes flashing ice blue. Scott coughs discreetly and stands up.

"He's right. Let's get this pack meeting underway."

He can't miss the way everybody suddenly orients to him, their body language subtly changing, coming to attention, even Allison and Lydia. Danny's the only one who doesn't, but that's because he's still new to this. He doesn't feel the pack bond yet. But he will, it's coming, it's inevitable. Which is why Scott invited him here today. It's still weird, still so weird to have this power, to know he's in charge. He's the leader now, he has to take charge in this, it's him and it always will be him, until the day he dies. Some have greatness thrust upon them...

"We're here to name my second in command," he starts simply, not sure exactly how to go about this. Glancing at Stiles, he gets an encouraging nod in return. 

"Derek...it should be you."

Derek, from hundreds of miles away, looks incredibly startled at that revelation, like it hadn't even occurred to him. He blinks, looking like he just got hit by a truck.

"No, it shouldn't," he says simply. "I should never be an Alpha again. I can't ever be an Alpha again. I gave up that power, it's gone forever."

Stiles can hear the profound regret and misery in Derek's tone, and knows now just how thoroughly Derek screwed everything up. Not just for the pack, but ultimately for himself. He sees the way Derek's eyes drop from the camera, turning his head away in submission and despair. In that moment, Stiles realizes something earth-shattering about himself. But he's surrounded by werewolves who can smell his emotions, so he shuts his mind closed against the possibility and remains calm. Or, at least, as calm as he can manage. Thank god he took his meds before the meeting.

"I know," murmurs Scott. "But in spite of all of that...it should be you."

"...Thank you, Scott."

And in that simple exchange, all is forgiven between them. They can start building the bridge to gap the old wounds, and maybe become more like brothers, instead of rivals. That was what had caused Scott to chafe against Derek's commands; not just the moral objections, but the subconscious knowledge that things were _backwards_ between them. That the natural order was meant to be Scott in the Alpha role, and Derek as his Beta. Scott holds out a slim hope that Derek will come back from Colorado, and rejoin their pack...

Scott turns next to Stiles. And Stiles shrugs a little bit, a wry smile on his face. He knows what's coming.

"It should also be you, Stiles. You're always the one figuring things out. You're the one who's always had my back. You're the one who's always had a plan B."

"Except when it counted."

They're both seeing that night on the roof of the hospital, after Melissa was taken, and Scott walked away with Deucalion. Stiles had no plan B that night, and as a result Scott nearly became...well. Something he was not. And Scott shakes his head.

"That was my fault, not yours," he says quietly, staring into his brother's eyes. His brother who doesn't look down and away, his brother who can meet his stare without fear, without submission. "But...I don't want to put you in that position again. I don't want you to have to take over from me if something...happens. We both know it won't work out."

"Yeah," is the small, worried answer, as Stiles remembers Cora's words from earlier. A human second usually dies with his or her Alpha...

"Besides, I need you as our Emissary."

Scott relishes the startled look on Stiles' face. It's a very rare moment when he can get one up on Stiles, when he's slightly quicker on the uptake and comes to an obvious conclusion before him. And he grins wolfishly, his eyes glowing red for just a moment in amusement. Stiles flails his arms, shaking his head in denial. But he actually really _likes_ that idea, which is obvious from the giant grin on his face.

"You're serious? You want me to be like...like Deaton?"

"No, I want you to be like Stiles," Scott corrects, still grinning back. "You're already doing the work of an Emissary. I figured it's time you had the official title to go along with it. Right?"

"Can I go by Google Guru instead?" he asks impishly. "I mean, Emissary sounds so stuffy."

A sudden growl from Aiden makes Stiles freeze, and Scott glance over at him. Is this it? Is this the moment where the challenge will come? But Aiden just narrows his eyes at Stiles without making a move.

"Don't be disrespectful of the Emissaries," Aiden says, his voice flat. "We saw what happened when we weren't anymore."

"...Leave it to a Double-Mint twin to bring the room down about a thousand degrees," sighs Stiles, rolling his eyes. This gets a growl out of _both_ twins, and it takes Danny and Lydia several moments of shushing and soothing them to bring tempers back down. Scott just stands there, glaring at Stiles with a hard look. And Stiles eventually gets the hint, shrugging and rubbing his forehead, chagrined.

"Sorry. Right. Emissary it is."

And that's part of the reason Stiles isn't his second in command, honestly. Too quick to be mouthy, too quick to offend. Scott just shakes his head, and leaves this topic where it is. They'll pick it up again later. In private. Where Stiles' mouth can't piss off his pack. Finally, he turns to Isaac.

And he's not at all surprised to see his lover shrink back, and Allison's arms go around him protectively. Isaac looks like he's about to throw up, honestly. He so rarely lets that weakness show, especially not in front of other people. Scott knows how proud he is, how much he puts on the brave front. But this...this is Isaac at his realest, his rawest, and Allison understands it. Isaac had come to the obvious conclusion as to where this was going, while Stiles was still being discussed. The thought of it hit some cold, raw, frightened place inside of him. Allison is his comfort now, and she speaks up for him, protecting him.

"Scott, no," she whispers, shaking her head. Forgetting everyone else, Scott kneels in front of the two of them, one hand on each of their knees. And Isaac manages to pull himself together after the initial shock. Which just makes this even more bittersweet and sad and wonderful. Allison gets it, she's been around Isaac enough now to understand his initial revulsion, his fear. And she runs a hand over his sweet curls to distract him. Scott smiles at her tenderness, and nods. He's already made his decision, but he wants to hear it from Isaac's lips first. Because Isaac is not a leader. He never has been. He prefers to be in the background, subordinate, unnoticed. He can take the initiative when he wants to, but he's at his best when he doesn't have to make the big decisions. He's a natural born Beta, which is why Derek picked him. Being second in command, and eventually a possible Alpha, would be the worst decision in the world, and all three of them know it.

"Isaac...tell me you'd hate it."

Isaac swallows before he speaks, but his voice is steady when he does. "I'd hate it. I'd do it, but I'd hate it."

There's no weakness in his tone, no fear. It's a statement of fact, like somebody saying they'd hate going on a roller coaster, or going sky diving. They could be talked into it by somebody they trusted, but otherwise wouldn't go near it at all. And Scott is so unbelievably proud of him in that moment, it's almost like a physical thing. He reaches up and cups Isaac's jaw in his hand, and nods.

"Well...it's a good thing you don't have to do it."

Relief makes both Isaac and Allison sag, and then they both surge up to give Scott one grateful kiss each. Lydia makes a startled noise, like a chicken, and points an accusing finger at Allison, who glances over at her friend. Oops. Uh. Yeah, guess she did forget to mention this development, huh? Sheepishly she shrugs at Lydia, who stands up angrily, her hands on her hips.

"You didn't tell me you were having a hot werewolf threesome!"

And that makes Stiles fall over, laughing hysterically, rolling off his dad's Lay-z-Boy breathless and red from the hilarity of that. Damn it. Apparently that's what this is called now. Scott and Isaac both blush bright red, coughing to cover their embarrassment. Allison just takes in a long-suffering breath, rubbing her eyes with the pads of her thumb and forefinger. Oh, damn it all.

"Focus," comes Derek's voice over the computer again, his disgust at these shenanigans apparent. Goddamn teenagers, what was he thinking turning this lot? ...Well, okay, just Isaac.

"Good idea," agrees Scott hastily, aiming a harmless kick at Stiles' leg to make him stop cackling like a hyena. Lydia settles too, mouthing the words 'tell me everything later!' at Allison. "Moving on?"

"So wait, if it's not Derek, and it's not Stiles, and it's not Isaac...who's your second?"

Leave it to Danny to finally bring them back to sanity, Danny with both his feet on the ground. The sensible one. They need a sensible one who can point out to them what idiots they're being. This is why Scott invited him in. And he hopes his next words will make Danny's place in the pack permanent.

"Ethan is."

It's like a bolt of lightning shoots through the room, making everybody's hair stand on end. Those two simple words are like a spell, remaking and recreating the world in Scott McCall's image. Ethan blinks, and his eyes shoot open wide. They're blood red at first, but then some strange and unknowable alchemy hits, slowly changing blood to sky, red to blue. Scott knew that Ethan's eyes would be blue, after all; he had killed an innocent when he helped kill Boyd. God only knew how many others he'd killed. Scott has just named a known killer as his second in command, and it shocks everybody in the room. Ethan is the first to recover, partially shifting into his Beta form, and gasping as the power of the Alpha leaves him.

"What have you done?!"

It's a cry from Aiden, horrified and high, as he leaps to his feet. Lydia's up immediately after him, grabbing his arm to pull him back down. Aiden allows himself to be stopped, but doesn't sit again as Scott stares him down, honestly confused by that reaction. Ethan is still shaken, staring down at his clawed hands in stunned amazement, like the earth has just opened below him. And then the twins are looking at each other, as if from across a great distance.

"You can't!" gasps Aiden, pale and looking more nauseous than Isaac had just a moment ago. "You can't do this! Why would you do this to us? Why would you separate us like this? We...we're on your side! We told you that! Oh shit, is this our punishment, I swear, I never would have challenged you, I didn't want to, I know better, we're not a threat to you anymore...!"

"Aiden, it's okay." Ethan reaches up to his brother and grabs his wrist tightly, claws marking pale skin. "It's okay, it's no big deal, we're fine, we're fine, it's gonna be fine, he didn't know, it can be fixed..."

And the rest of the pack is stunned into silence as the twin brothers curl in on each other, like a yin and yang symbol, clutching to each other for comfort. Even Derek looks confused by this reaction, when Scott glances to his image on the screen for some sort of clue. Lydia and Danny are left utterly confused, alone and outside of the incredibly deep bond the twins share. Several long moments go by as the twins whimper and shiver to themselves on Stiles' living room floor. All the rest of the pack are terrified, afraid. Not of the twins, but for them. What has Scott inadvertently done? Allison stands up and slides her hand into Scott's, quietly supportive. This is suddenly a nightmare, Scott's worst dream. He's hurt somebody with the Alpha power. Not on purpose, but it's still happened...

"I'm not separating you," he says quietly, cautiously. "You're both part of the pack, until you two decide not to be. I don't understand."

"Their power," says Stiles suddenly, the light bulb going on. "They can't merge anymore if one of them is a Beta. They both have to be Alphas."

Everybody glances at Stiles, and then back to the twins for confirmation. It's Ethan's slow nod that brings it all home, and Scott feels utterly disgusted with himself. How had he never realized that when he made his decision? 

"Oh, shit."

That's the most surprising part of all, that Scott McCall just said a bad word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't just keep referring to Sheriff Stilinski and Agent McCall by...those names. Or vague pronouns. So...have some first names, gentlemen.


	3. Chapter 3

Her voice is deep, smooth, and filled with unreleased laughter, like everything is so sardonically amusing to her. She peers at him with dark indigo eyes, and he's half convinced himself that they're contact lenses, honestly. In all his years of hunting, Chris has never seen eyes precisely that color in anything _human._ But her eyes don't hold him. No, it's her voice. Her inescapable, honey vodka voice.

"It's funny, so many people say that to me, but I've never seen a single one of her movies," is the answer to his question, as she pours him another three fingers of whiskey.

"Either her or Mae West."

"Now _her_ , I know. Her, I love. 'There are no good girls gone wrong - just bad girls found out.'"

Chris actually laughs at that, because it's such a spot-on impersonation of that long-gone legend it's actually startling. And she smiles back at him across the table, those dark eyes still twinkling with amusement.

"You've seriously never seen a Kathleen Turner movie?" he presses on, bringing up his original comparison. And she shakes her head, her Veronica Lake hair softly brushing against her shoulder. Chris can't help the comparison in his mind; Victoria had never grown her hair long. Too dangerous, too easily grabbed by some predator, too much of a target. For some reason, the thought of his dead wife is softer now, the touch of her image less fire-bright and painful. Her eyes don't accuse, don't bore into the back of his skull to remind him of all his failures. 

"Never," is the singer's answer to that, bringing Chris back to the present, back to the woman here and now. "Well...no. I take that back. I've seen one where she provided the voice. Roger Rabbit. That's such a brilliant movie, it's one of my favorites."

He's honestly a little startled at that, and repeats it just to make sure he heard properly in the din of the bar. "...Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Is one of your favorite movies?"

"Is it a crime to appreciate good animation?" The sinuous curve of her shoulders wriggles against the brown leather booth, that smirk still on her face. She wears a smirk well, this one. It makes her seem that much more mysterious, that much more unobtainable. 

Chris leans forward, swirling his glass of whiskey at her before taking another belt. And he's got a mirroring smirk on his own face now. God help him, he's honestly flirting. 

"You're kind of absurd."

"I take that as a high compliment."

"What's your name?"

"A girl has to have some secrets, Chris."

"Let me buy you another drink."

"If you insist."

It's the kind of casual banter that a man can partake in with a woman on their third date, which is precisely what this is. Their first meeting, her first appearance at the Seal Bar, had been three nights ago. And he's been back every night since, still trying in vain to get her name out of her.

It's odd, if he thinks on it too hard. He doesn't think on it too hard. But she never introduces herself when she sings. She never has to. The entire bar slips into respectful attention when she takes the stage, her slender hand wrapping around the microphone, a filthy metaphor that Chris chides himself for noticing. And she's never said her name. The bartender refuses to divulge it. The owner of the place just goes white-lipped and shakes his head whenever he's asked. And Chris just finds himself reeled in deeper and deeper with every passing hour. There are dozens of men in this place, but after her set, she inevitably makes a beeline right for him. Just like she did her first night, and her second night. Every night she's sung so far, he's been there, and every night she's been across the table from him immediately after. Five songs, six, all in a melancholy key, the lyrics completely forgettable, lost in the powerhouse of her voice. Her _voice._ Every single person in the bar, male or female, is completely entranced by that voice. And even when she stops singing, the spell doesn't break for a good ten to fifteen minutes, leaving the normal sounds of a busy bar muted and awestruck, as if unsure that such mortal sounds were acceptable anymore.

She glances at the bartender, and nods once. And just like that, her order is being attended to. Just like that. No wait, no tab, no card on file. Just a nod, and the alcohol flows. It's a talent Chris envies, honestly.

And then she glances back at him and smiles, her indigo eyes crinkling around the edges, and he still doesn't know her name.

Boldly, he reaches across the table to catch her hand in his, like a fisherman trawling for one last good catch. She playfully evades, tapping his palm lightly with the tips of her fingers, batting him away. But even as she rebuffs him on one front, she's attacking another. She slides her bare instep up the inside of Chris's calf, and then in between his legs. Her bare toes unerringly find the mark, and he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. She's playing footsie with him, her intent clear as day. He goes momentarily stiff: he hasn't been touched like this in five years. Yes, his wife died seven months ago. For five years, he's been celibate, and not by his own choice. So that move confuses him, even as it arouses him. And her smirk becomes softer, more understanding. As if she can see right inside his head, see exactly the reasons why it frightens him. And she subsides. She mercifully stops teasing him, but cocks her head to one side, pondering him. Chris lets out a breath, letting all his secrets be known. She has him pinned with her eyes, but he needs more.

"I see."

She speaks slowly, her voice weaving the spell anew, and Chris relaxes completely once again. That's what he needed from her, just two simple words, just to hear her voice.

There's an odd, companionable silence as they gaze at each other across the well-worn wooden table. All of his hunter's instincts should be roused by now; there's no way she's human. He's studied the bestiary since grade school, he knows something's up. But that's a distant, other world thought. Here, in this world, with her, there's nothing to be worried about, nothing to fret over. And she says nothing else, as if waiting for him to continue the conversation, take it in the logical direction. There's a need there, a desperate and long-suppressed masculine desire. Since he helped Victoria kill herself, he's felt nothing but numbness, killing his own sexual need. The thought of taking this new woman back to his apartment, back to his new bachelor mattress, back to where his daughter lives...that sends a small spark of revulsion up his spine. There's only so far the spell is willing to take him, and taking her to his home is not included. If they'd still been living in their old house, it would have been even worse, might have ruined everything. But a two bedroom flat downtown? It still wasn't really home, not for him nor for Allison. This woman could eventually fit in there, might become a fixture...

"Come back to my place."

And just like that, her honey vodka voice solves all the dilemmas, makes everything okay again. Chris finds himself nodding in agreement before his brain can catch up, his libido and his need and his loneliness leading the way. She smiles, her first genuine smile all night, and slips out of the leather booth. She's short. Surprisingly so. And she's built like that proverbial brick shit-house. If Chris were in full grasp of his facilities, he'd recognize her for what she was, inhuman and in control. She's almost a mockery of feminine wiles, with large breasts, a narrow and nipped-in waist, and wide hips. Those spike heels and slinky cocktail dress she's wearing only serve to make her more feminine, more alluring, and when she speaks again, Chris is lost.

"I'll be gentle, I promise."

And she holds her hand out to him, luring him on, her eyes luminous. He takes the bait. He takes her hand. And he follows her out into the dark of the Beacon Hills night, without worrying about their tab, their lives, the context of this encounter, anything. As far as Chris Argent is concerned, there's nothing worth worrying about ever again, no matter what happens from here on out. No matter that he doesn't know her name. What's in a name? A rose would smell as sweet...

She leads him out into the night, the spell of her voice, of the alcohol, of the need leading him on. Chris doesn't think with his cock, no, never has. But he'll allow emotion to lead him. Lead him into the nameless woman's bed, for some small chance to forget, to find oblivion in her embrace.

***

Lydia has her hands full, she really does. It's almost getting annoying. Aiden has his angst, yes, but now it's out of control. Winners are supposed to _remain_ winners, not turn into piles of jelly when things don't go their way. If she wanted that, she'd have gone with Jackson to London and listened to him whine about how shit his life was. So it's with a firm-set jaw and annoyed tilt to her head that she knocks on the door of the twins' cabin, the morning after the pack meeting. Her hair is impeccably done, she's wearing her trendiest BCBG skirt and sweater, and she's not taking _anybody's_ shit. Least of all Aiden's.

Although she's taken slightly aback when he answers the door looking like death warmed over in tupperware. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is greasy and unwashed, and his nails are cracked and bitten. The less said about his clothes (or lack thereof), the better.

"...Oh, _really!_ " she sighs, pushing past her wolf and into the place. God, she and Danny needed to come in here and just completely redecorate. They were practically in-laws at this point, so why not? Aiden doesn't seem to really get her impatience. Or anything, really. He's got this shell-shocked and dull look on his face, closing the door behind her and following her dully into the main space of the cabin. There's a table, two chairs, and an iron stove. That's it. The twins are seriously into the mountain man thing, apparently, because they don't even spring for electricity, let alone wi-fi. Lydia is barely tolerating it. Barely.

"When are you gonna get over this?" she insists, pointing a finger at her boyfriend. He just blinks at her, barely managing a bovine intelligence to her question. And she snorts, shaking her head. "Exactly what I'm talking about. This. This stupid angst is getting really old, Aiden. So you and Ethan can't merge anymore. So what? You're part of a really powerful Alpha's pack. Scott's more powerful than Deucalion or Peter or Derek ever was. Even you admit that, right? So get over yourself! Please! I was getting super sick of waiting for you to text me, okay?"

Aiden stares at her, finally managing to feel something other than loss since Ethan had been torn from him by Scott's declaration. For the first time in their relationship, Aiden wants to snarl at Lydia, turn away from her, insist that she leave. But he takes a deep breath, and forces patience. She doesn't understand. It's not his job to educate her...but she doesn't understand.

"...Lydia? Knock it off."

"No." She's got her arms across her chest, and her jaw clenched stubbornly. "Talk to me. Tell me. You can't shut me out like this, Aiden. I won't put up with it. Jackson did that to me and I hate it. So you'll tell me what's up, or you'll get your head out of your ass and cope. Choose."

A low, warning growl rumbles through his chest, his throat, but Lydia doesn't budge. Fiery redhead that she is, of course she doesn't budge, of course she isn't afraid. He paces impatiently to the far window, and rubs a hand across his forehead.

"We're born wolves," he starts, his voice flat and angry. "You knew that, right?"

"I figured as much, yes," is the answer, much more patient now. He's talking, and that's a victory.

"We're also really rare. Twins. Twin werewolves have been recorded in our history a grand total of eight times."

Even though he's not looking at her, he can see the wheels in her sharp head turning, figuring out all the implications.

"How far back do the records go?"

"Seventeen hundred years."

He hears her small, sharp intake of breath, and nods in confirmation. And then he continues.

"Romulus and Remus are a legend, the twins raised by wolves. One founded Rome. The other...well. He was a true werewolf, according to our lore. So twins are considered an especially sacred omen in werewolf history, and powerful too. Unless you happen to be born into a pack where the Alpha is a power-hungry son of a bitch who enjoys the helplessness of his Betas."

"...And Omegas."

Aiden growls again, but then eventually nods.

"Omegas are supposed to be without a pack. But Ethan and I...we were born Alphas. We were born to be great. Our Alpha had other ideas."

He has to stop himself from tearing into the table with his claws. It wouldn't scare Lydia, no. But it'd piss off Ethan and Danny something fierce, since they'd picked it out and paid for it. He controls himself with difficulty, even as Lydia steps closer to him, clutching her purse against her side.

"What did he do to you?"

Her voice is so quiet, so small, that he can recognize submission when he hears it. Turning to her, his eyes are glowing red, as all Alphas should. But now his brother, his twin, his other self, isn't an Alpha anymore, so the power feels hallow, a mockery. And he sighs a great heaving sigh, shaking his head.

"He starved us," he starts simply, glancing away again. "He beat us. From infancy onward. We have no real idea where we're from, what our true lineage was. We were a part of that pack from our earliest memories. And he told us we were worthless. Useless. I know we weren't born into that pack. We were taken, kidnapped. We think. Maybe. We're honestly not too sure. But we looked nothing like the others, and nobody claimed us as their pups. So we figured we were just...the waste. The orphans. Lost Omega pups nobody cared about."

He can't look at Lydia's face, because he can smell her tears, her sorrow, her regret. This is already too hard, without her pity. But he forces himself on, because he loves her.

"And then, when Ethan and I were about nineteen, we met Deucalion."

"And he showed you your powers."

"He showed us how to _live._ "

Aiden has been holding this back, and it's only with Lydia that it can come out. He trusts her, he trusts her more than she can really ever comprehend. Aiden never lets his emotions out. Never. But she gets it. And that makes everything easier. He reaches out to her with his hand, and it's a testament to their trust in each other that she reaches forward and takes it. The relationship predicated on purely physical need and base manipulation has blossomed into something so much more. Her hand is warm and soothing against his, soft and delicate. It amazes Aiden, that this fiery little human - banshee - would put her life literally in his hands. With the slightest movement, he could crush her. But he never, ever would, because that would make his life unbearable now.

"Deucalion told us two things; that we were born with red eyes, and that we were born in one body. From there, it was simple. It was like...have you ever had a dream where you wake up and feel inexplicably happy?"

"Yeah," she whispers back. Everybody has, even severely traumatized teenagers.

"That was me and Ethan, the night we merged for the first time. It took us some time to figure it out. But, claws in the neck, reliving memories together, seeing things we'd forgotten for the first time. Deucalion gave us the final push, and..."

His eyes go dark, and distant, and above all, _satisfied._

"That night we first merged, that was the night we slaughtered our pack. Our Alpha first, we pulled his spine out of his back with our bare hand. Then the five Betas. Them, we just clawed their hearts out, simple enough to do. Our Emissary...she was harder to do. But she'd never stood up for us, never told Uther to stop, so we were quick. Merciful. Snapped her neck and dropped her..."

It's then that Aiden realizes that Lydia is trembling, throwing off the stink of pure fear and horror. And Aiden knows he's gone too far. His grip on her hand loosens, and she pulls away slowly. Numbly. Their eyes meet, and he can practically _see_ her visualization of their actions that night. The silence stretches on for several long, agonizing seconds as Lydia finally, _finally_ understands who he is. Jackson...what Jackson did was one thing, he killed, but he was being controlled to do it. Aiden did it of his own free will, and seemingly enjoyed it to boot. She swallows and steps back, her heart slamming around in her chest. Now she understands how Stiles feels when he's having a panic attack, because she's having one herself.

"Lydia...?"

She takes a deep breath, forcing her lungs to accept the air, and the mask is back in place. She's Lydia Martin, the girl who knew too much, the survivor. The fear will always be there, though, and in that moment, Aiden knows he's lost her. Lost her, lost Ethan...

He tips his head back and howls.

Just as Lydia's mask shatters once again, and she opens up her mouth and _screams._

Aiden's howl is cut short as he gasps, dropping to his knees and clapping his hands ineffectively over his ears. Her scream slices him through the bone, makes his head feel like it's ballooning to three times its normal size. He's heard her scream this close before, but then it was in Hale's enormous loft. There was some space there. Here, in this small cabin, the sound has nowhere to go but _into_ him. With a grunt, he rolls onto his side, curling up into a fetal ball, arms around his head.

And then it's over as quickly as it started. Lydia is a panting, shaken mess, her eyes sightless and trained over the horizon. Looking toward the Beacon Hills reservoir, just a scant mile to the east. And she's breathless now, lower lip trembling.

"The lake," she whispers. And it's only Aiden's accelerated healing that allows him to even come close to having working eardrums again. "Something's happened at the lake."

Everything shifts into a new perspective for the wolf; she wasn't just afraid of him in that moment. She was sensing another death.

"Aiden, come with me, please...?"

He forces himself to his feet, and nods brokenly. It truly is a testament to how frightened she is, that she'd ask a confessed killer to help her and accompany her. He reaches to pull on a shirt, and she's anxious, fidgeting.

"Call Scott. Tell Scott. He needs to know."

"...I'll text Ethan."

That's as good as it's gonna get, honestly, because Aiden is still not speaking to his Alpha. She nods once, curtly, and then is striding to the door, as if nothing in the world could stop her. Her eyes are still glassy and trained on something he cannot see. He has a feeling a freight train could not stop her in this moment. Nobody had seen Lydia in her fugue state before; it hadn't happened since she embraced her power, did as much research as she could. In spite of finding nothing, she did have a few bare legends to go on; banshees announced when one was about to die, or had died.

Or was in the process of being killed.

But she'd been getting better, she'd been finding people _before._ And she'd kept her wits about her for all of it. So for her to drop back into that automaton state, meant that the death took her entirely by surprise. Which meant it was probably occurring at that exact moment of her scream.

Like hell was he going to let her wander into that alone.

So one spaced out banshee and one very angsty Alpha werewolf make their way to the reservoir, unsure what they were about to find. What a team, huh?

***

Scott sniffs the air, his senses on high alert. Water, water hits him first, the non-chlorinated smell of too much standing water. Plastic. Plastic was next, the little black protective balls that dotted the reservoir's surface. Trees. Rocks. Lots of different rocks, and dirt. But...

"Lydia, there's nothing here."

Leaning up against a tree nearby, her arms crossed over her stomach, Lydia looks very, very pissed off. No, not because Scott confirmed that, after Aiden had said it first. No, she's pissed because she's gone through that for _nothing?_ The fear, the horror, the lost time? She glares down at Scott's motorbike, glancing at her pale reflection in his mirrored helmet visor. Then up at Aiden, keeping his distance from both her and Scott.

"Yes, there is," she insists. Now her pride's on the line, and the trust they had in her power. "Keep looking."

Scott sighs, and walks up closer to her, a worried look on his face. There's a small, almost inaudible growl from Aiden. Scott glances back at him, his eyes blood red, and Aiden backs down with a swallow. Not the time for possessive wolf stuff. Scott puts a calming hand on Lydia's shoulder, and it goes to show how far they've come that she doesn't immediately shrug it off.

"Lydia, if somebody had died here, we'd smell it. We'd smell the blood." Scott's trying to sound reasonable, not breaking eye contact with his friend, gesturing between himself and Aiden.

"Maybe they didn't bleed," is her curt answer to that, her green eyes wide, her lips pulled into a pout. "Or maybe the water washed it away."

"Lydia..."

"Have I _ever_ been wrong?"

There's a short pause at that, and Scott slowly shakes his head.

"No. You haven't."

" _Thank_ you. Something happened here, Scott. But...I don't know when. I don't know _when._ "

Scott's about to reply to that when there's the crunch of tires over dried leaves and gravel. Stiles' blue jeep is bouncing over the rough terrain, and it squeals to a stop nearby, disgorging Stiles from the driver's seat, and Isaac and Allison from the passenger's side. Scott feels himself relax as the three of them arrive; his anchors.

Stiles makes a beeline to Lydia of course, prompting another growl from Aiden. Oh, of course, Ethan wasn't here, why would you invite your _second_ McCall, the second you had to name...and once again, Aiden finds himself on the bad end of a glare from Scott. And Stiles. He clenches his jaw and looks away. Fuck this. He starts to stomp off into the trees.

"Aiden!" is the sharp bark from Lydia. "Don't you dare!"

So he stops, and waits. Only for her.

Stiles just makes a sour little face. Since that day in the locker room, when Lydia had kissed him, he'd finally come to terms with one thing: he and Lydia Martin were never going to be a thing. That long-fantasized and finally received kiss drove home the fact quite nicely. He'd had a vision for their first kiss, and that vision had never included a boy's locker room. It was wrong. 

_They_ were wrong. They didn't fit together, no matter how much they had in common. They were a good team, but they would never be partners, not like Scott and Allison. Or Scott and Isaac. Or Scott _and_ Allison _and_ Isaac. Not like Danny and Ethan. Not like Aiden and Lydia. Not like him and...

But love (or obsession) dies hard, so it's out of long-standing habit that he moves to protect her, to seek her out if she's in trouble.

"Are you okay?" he asks her quietly, and he's gratified to see a little smile curl up her lips.

"I'm fine, except for the fact that I'm doing it again."

"Doing what?" asks Allison, stepping closer, moving to Scott's side. She's trailed by Isaac, his hands in his long jacket pockets, eyes on the ground. Lydia grimaces at her friend, and shakes her head.

"Losing time. Freaking out. Losing control. I screamed."

"We heard, yeah. Scott and Isaac were already moving before Ethan even called us."

"So what took you so long to get here?" the redhead asks playfully, trying to distract herself. Her skin was crawling with the feeling of death all over the place, but having her pack near was definitely helping.

"Hey, the reservoir is gated off!" protests Stiles with a grin. "I committed breaking and entering because of you. On municipal property. Again. My dad's gonna have a fit."

"Guys?"

Scott's voice is quiet and serious, and he drops Allison's hand to step back to Lydia again.

"We need to focus, please. Lydia...I don't know what to tell you. I can't smell a body, or blood, or anything."

"Maybe it happened a long time ago." Aiden's voice is husky, emotional, but his face is blank and hard.

"Great." Lydia looks sour at that, her face twisting into a smarmy little smirk. "Fantastic. You know, if I end up reacting to every violent death that _ever_ happened in this town, that's really going to drive me crazy."

"Going to?"

Everybody spins to Isaac, who's still staring at the rocks, but now he has a little smirk on his own face. Allison rolls her eyes and snorts impatiently at Isaac. She has to resist the urge to give him that playful girlfriend whack. She'd gotten away with it once, when they first got together with Scott...but she also knows that smacking him around is a very, very bad idea.

"Isaac, really," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, so funny," snarks Lydia. "Yeah, thanks a lot."

"You're not crazy," insists Stiles. "No more than the rest of us, anyway. Of course, Allison's probably carrying six or seven different weapons in her Elliot Mann bag, three of y'all are werewolves, and I've taken enough Adderall in my life that it could probably be used to power Cincinnati."

Scott shakes his head and sighs. God, this pack.

"Guys!" He tries to get their focus back, even as they all laugh together. He can't help but laugh too, and it does feel good, once again banishing the darkness. Even Aiden had a little smirk on his face, although that was mainly from seeing Lydia smiling again.

"Seriously! If Lydia's sensing something here, we've gotta figure it out."

"Right, sorry." Stiles literally wipes the smile off his face with one hand, and then leans back against the hood of his Jeep. "Well, if it is something from a long time ago, maybe the body's in the lake? I could call my dad, send out a dredging team?"

"Would your dad do that on your word alone?"

Stiles makes a little face, pressing his lips together. His relationship with his father was closer than ever, but now there was an unspoken line that couldn't be crossed. The two worlds mingling was a very, very bad idea, and both father and son knew it. He concedes Scott's point with a small, hurt nod.

"Maybe not right now. In six months, maybe. But not right now."

"Anonymous tip?" asks Allison, looking thoughtful. "Might carry more weight coming from an adult voice."

She glances at Scott, asking him the silent question: get my dad involved? Or not? One nod from Scott has her pulling out her phone, and calling her dad. Which rings. And rings. And then goes to voice mail.

"...He's not answering."

The cold feeling of dread that hits Allison in that moment makes goosebumps stand up on her arms. She can hear his voice through the recording, tinny and distant on her cell. And it takes her a second after the beep to start talking, her eyes showing her fright.

"...Dad, it's Allison. Call me. As soon as possible, please?"

Numbly, she hits the disconnect button, her mind racing with possibilities. And two strong sets of arms are around her, supporting her. And Lydia is stepping closer, looking deeply worried for her friend.

"It's probably nothing," Scott murmurs, his lips close to Allison's ear. "He's at work, right?"

"I think so..."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Isaac is worried, not for Mr. Argent's safety, but for Allison's emotions. She's already lost so much family, that she's hyper-sensitive about the possibilities here.

"Yesterday afternoon. I got home from school, and he said he was going out for the night again...and then we had the pack meeting. And then..."

"You stayed with us last night," finishes Scott. It was just how things went now, Allison staying out all night without her father's say-so. She wasn't eighteen yet, but she was damn close. And after last year, after taking over and remolding the Argent family code, she considered herself an adult. She could come and go as she pleased. But now her policy of hardly checking in with her father was biting her in the ass, and he was missing. She nods quickly, and is surprised when Lydia reaches in and takes her hand.

"I'm sure it's nothing," she murmurs. "It wasn't him I was screaming about, Allison."

"...Okay..."

Stiles is staring down at the rocks now, because seeing Allison upset is still a difficult thing. When she loses it, people get hurt. Stiles just has to hope that two werewolves are enough to keep the hunter in control. Because if she snaps _again_...

...What the hell?

Something catches his eye. Bending down, Stiles picks up what appears to be a chunk of rock, gray, and flecked with red. He turns it over in his fingers, inspecting it, his eyes narrow and questioning. And then he turns it just the right way.

"Oh my _god...!_ "

The rest of the pack turns to him, wondering at his little outburst. He's gone more than a little green around the gills, and horrified.

"Stiles, what is it?" asks Scott, stepping forward to his best friend.

"It's part of a face."

Holding up the stone to his pack, it's completely unmistakeable: A nose, half of a wide, horrified eye, and a mouth open in an eternal, soundless scream.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles is already hunched over his computer, eyes darting back and forth over Wikipedia pages. God, what did werewolf packs do before the internet? Because the bestiary is all well and good, but it doesn't pack anywhere near the punch that Wikipedia does. Yes, a huge book on a memory stick, big deal. Hard to translate out of Archaic Latin...

"Okay," he says to Lydia, grabbing his bottle of Mountain Dew and taking another swig in between breaths. "So far all I've been able to find on anybody or anything with the capability of turning people into stone is..."

"A Gorgon?"

Lydia's lounging on his bed, her Kindle Fire on her lap, as she lazily brushes her finger across the screen every so often. And she's the very picture of boredom now. The mask, the perfect princess mask that drives Stiles crazy, is fully back in place after her episode in the morning. Stiles rolls his eyes and minimizes the browser window with an impatient click of his mouse. He still adored Lydia, in spite of his new realizations about her, about them. But every now and then the girl drove him absolutely bonkers. Now was one of those times.

"Yeah. Basically." The wind is taken out of his sails, so he rallies and tries to get one up on her again. "And the cockatrice, too."

"A lizard born from the egg of a rooster, incubated in dung and hatched on a new moon." Lydia says that like it's the most boring possible thing, not even looking up from the screen of her reader.

Stiles snorts and throws up his hands in surrender. "Okay seriously, who's the Emissary in this pack and who's the Banshee? You're stealing my thunder."

"I'm sorry." But she doesn't look terribly sorry as she grins at him, and holds up her Kindle: The Argent bestiary is displayed on the screen, in full color, with indexed, tabbed browsing. "I had it turned into a KF8 file so I could carry it easier."

And now Stiles is truly defeated, but he takes it with good grace, a roll of his eyes and a wry chuckle. "...I really wish I'd thought of that."

"Well, you didn't, and I did, so it's a good thing I'm here."

The pert smugness in her voice is both annoying and adorable all at once, and Stiles just has to laugh again. Honestly, he's glad for her help, because as slow as she was to figure out the supernatural shenanigans in the first place, now that she's up to speed she's a _pro._ Right up until the screaming starts, anyway. He spins back to his computer and pulls Firefox back up.

"And the Gorgon is a snake-headed woman, related to the dryads and nymphs of ancient Greece. The most well-known Gorgon was Medusa..."

Lydia picks up the narrative, looking thoughtful. "Slain by Perseus in his quest to marry Cassiopeia. I remember our seventh grade projects on Greek myths too, you know."

Stiles just chuckles at her reminder. "This honestly makes me want to watch Clash of the Titans again. But the classic Harryhausen one, not the crap modern one with what's his face."

"Sam Worthington?" She makes a very disappointed face at Stiles, as if she honestly cannot believe he'd forget the name of such a talented, beautiful man. Or he was in her eyes at least. Stiles waves that off dismissively, intent once again on the actual problem at hand here.

"Whatever. So either we're facing a woman with snakes for hair, or a tiny little lizard that could be hiding _anywhere._ "

"There's one small problem."

"Just one?"

She sighs and hits the off button to her Kindle, putting it aside and sitting up off Stiles' bed. And she looks a little green around the gills, like she's hating herself at the moment. This doesn't bode well, and Stiles' eyebrows knit across his forehead.

"Neither one exists." Lydia's staring at her cuticles as she says that, knowing what he's going to use to counter that. And he doesn't prove her wrong. There's a long pause, and Stiles slowly spins back around in his chair, a flat and disbelieving look on his face, his lips pressed together and his eyes narrow.

"That. Coming from a _Banshee._ In a pack of werewolves. Who brought a lizard-man back to life with the power of her love."

Yup, there it is. That finally gets a reaction out of her; she flinches at the reminder of Jackson, her green eyes going dark and hurt. And Stiles recognizes his mistake, instantly softening and scooting toward her.

"That's not how I meant it," he tries, but she just closes her eyes and shakes her head. No, Stiles. Not talking about it. Not now, not ever. Mercifully he takes the hint and subsides. But that was a black mark on his imaginary _'Lydia Martin Relationship Tally'_ that only he was keeping. Ugh. Let it go, Stilinski. Let it go, he tells himself. It's wrong and it's never happening. Not now, not ever. After a long moment of silence and stillness, she opens her eyes, and squares her shoulders.

"Yes. That coming from me." She points a finger at him and waggles it back and forth, like a stern librarian who's caught him talking. And that imperious tilt to her chin is back. "Which of us has read this bestiary backwards and forwards fourteen times since she got it in her adorably manicured hands?"

"...You."

"That's right. I'm the one who reads Archaic Latin around here. You might be the broad research guy, with your mountain ash tricks, but I'm the one who knows _this._ " She taps one tapered finger to the back of the Kindle, driving her point home. "Stiles. There's no such thing as a gorgon or a cockatrice outside of Bulfinch's Mythology."

Stiles groans, and rubs a hand down his face in pure frustration.

"But there's nothing else! No creatures capable of doing this, other than some obscure Chinese demons, which I don't think we're dealing with here. And if Druids could accomplish that, Ms. Blake would have just turned us all to stone and saved herself a lot of grief, the bitch."

He's gratified to see a smug little smile turn up Lydia's lips. They were both immensely glad their former English teacher was, apparently, dead. No body had been found, of course, but if she'd lived, she surely would have turned up by now to make their lives hell again. So, Occam's Razor, she was dead because Deucalion had slashed her throat. The only good thing Deucalion had ever done, honestly.

"True. So if it's not a creature, a demon, or a druid, what is it?"

"Fuck if I know," sighs Stiles, giving up and reaching for his Mountain Dew again. "But that's all I got."

Lydia's silent a moment longer, gnawing at her lower lip. The hesitation is back again, and it's starting to worry Stiles. When she finally looks back up, her green eyes are dark and haunted. Because she hates feeling insecure, about any aspect of her life. She's in control, always has been. So when her powers spiral out of her control, it scares the crap out of her.

"Maybe we're looking at this all wrong?" she suggests quietly. "Maybe...maybe that wasn't a person."

"Huh?" Stiles honestly is stumped by what she's suggesting, tilting his head sideways at her. "Lydia, you saw the face. You saw the _eye_. There's no way that chunk of rock was just a coincidence of geography and erosion. That was somebody's _face_ once."

"Or maybe it was just a smashed statue."

The silence stretches between them as he stares at her. This is an entirely new development that nobody had considered at the time. Everybody had jumped to the logical conclusion, that it was something supernatural and horrific, and thus had sent them all scattering for clues. Lydia and Stiles to his house for information, Allison, Isaac, Scott and Aiden to circumnavigate the reservoir for scents and tracks. Too much weird stuff has happened in Beacon Hills for any of the pack to assume benign and innocent causes. 

"But...but you _screamed,_ " he croaks, his jaw dropping open at her. "You were the one who led us there. You said somebody had died there."

"Maybe I was wrong."

That propels Stiles up out of his chair with a huff, pacing his room as Lydia's head drops. Her gaze is locked on her knees, as she struggles with the burning humiliation she's feeling. But it's really the only logical conclusion she could draw. She's never been wrong, no. But there's always a first time. Her talent, her curse is too nebulous to be one hundred percent accurate. She's still not sure what she is, how she got there. Maybe this is a side-effect of finally accepting her power and using it. False positives. She doesn't voice this to Stiles, not yet; the last thing she needs is Scott doubting her. But she definitely is doubting herself.

"You were real specific about the lake," Stiles mutters, cutting across her thoughts. "And you were real insistent that Scott keep looking. What are you saying to me?"

She sighs, because she knows that this next part, Stiles is going to absolutely flip his shit about. It takes a careful moment of arranging the words properly in her head, so Stiles won't go looking for Aiden immediately after.

"There was something else going on when I screamed," she confesses, still looking down. "Aiden and I..."

"Did he hurt you?"

Stiles doesn't realize what his voice sounds like in that moment, and it frightens Lydia even as it thrills her. She's always been attracted to a certain kind of man, a powerful man, a winner. In that moment, Stiles sounded like he was capable of murder. And god, that's _attractive._ What the hell is wrong with her, that she finds the threat of violence so arousing?

"He didn't hurt me," she answers quickly, to both calm Stiles down and save Aiden's fuzzy werewolf ass. "But he...told me some things."

Stiles looks skeptical, his eyes narrowing at her again, and he crosses to his bed, his hands on her knees, looking her up and down. She wonders what he's doing, but then it hits her; he's inspecting her for bruises, for injuries, for damage. The thought warms her, right in the pit of her stomach.

"Like?"

"...Like what happened to his old pack. Like why he and Ethan were having such a hard time. Like what he did with Deucalion."

And oddly enough, Stiles blinks at that confession, looking confused.

"Wait. You mean to tell me that, after you witnessed him and Ethan flat-out _murder_ Boyd, you had no idea that he was a killer? Lydia, I know you like to pretend everything's normal and you're fine and oblivious for some reason, but that's going a bit too far."

"No!"

She's frustrated now, because Stiles has misunderstood her. It propels her off the bed, to pace the room like he had been just a short while before. And he doesn't follow. Not yet.

"No, he told me the details. Told me how he and Ethan killed the pack. Killed their Emissary. He told me everything, and..."

"Still not getting it," Stiles interrupts. "You knew the general gist before, and were fine jumping his bones. But the _details_ of it turned you off? Lydia, there's hypocrisy, and then there's you."

And that feels like a slap in the face. For so long, this has been unspoken between them, the judgment of her choices, the longing on his part. She gasps, her stomach dropping into her shoes. But then her jaw stiffens, and she whirls on one foot, like a ballerina, and storms out the door. She's so upset that she leaves her purse and her Kindle behind, stomping down the stairs toward the front door. She's also utterly unsurprised when she hears him thundering down after her, and catching her arm as she reaches for the doorknob. He spins her around again, disorientating her, and grabs her other arm for good measure. She's left gasping, tears slipping down her cheeks, as she stares up into his angry face. But slowly the anger leeches out of his expression, leaving him devastated and sad on her behalf. She doesn't know it, but she just glimpsed the tiniest sliver of the darkness that's haunting his soul...

"Okay...I'm sorry. First of all, I'm sorry."

His voice is low, hypnotic, and she nods at his words, accepting his apology.

"You were scared, I get it. It's hard to hear how somebody you love is a killer. It's an emotional thing. Visceral. I get it. I'm sorry."

He does get it, and Lydia feels the tension leave her in that moment. Stiles was, quite literally, one of the last people around who understood her completely. Scott was another, but there's history with Stiles. Scott's like a puppy, full of unconditional love. Stiles' affection comes at a higher price, which she understands more than he does, she thinks. And she's remembering their kiss that night of the sacrifice, unconsciously licking her lips in preparation for more. She's even tilting her face up to his, waiting for him to take, to use, like all people take and use. Like she's taken and used, both with Jackson and Aiden. The moment stretches out, longer, the span of several heartbeats for both of them.

But nothing happens.

"Stiles...?"

He's staring down at her still, also remembering that kiss. How good it was...and how _wrong_ it had been. He'd fantasized about kissing her, doing so much more with her, since he first saw her. Third grade, just after his mom had died, and there was Lydia Martin. Feminine and magical and beautiful and smart, everything he was lacking in his life anymore. Therein followed nearly a decade of useless longing, her ignoring him completely, snubbing him, pretending he wasn't there. For a while, he'd toyed with the notion that she honestly didn't know he was there...but no. She was too smart for that. She knew. So that kiss in the locker room, it wasn't the cornerstone of their relationship's start. It was the capstone of their relationship's end. No more romance, no more love, no more longing. Just resigned knowledge of the could-have-been.

And in that moment, as the two of them stare at each other, they both know that the other knows. Their history is full of lies, deceit, judgment, and longing. And it's not enough to go on. There's no romantic love there. Just a mutual respect now...and a bond deeper than usual. An Emissary and a Banshee. A herald and a scholar. Pack. But no more than that.

"Come back upstairs," he murmurs calmly. "Take a breath. I won't hurt Aiden, I promise. But you need to tell me everything. Including why you think you're wrong about the stone face."

"Okay," she whispers back, closing the book on their silent, unresolved love affair.

The end. The end. The end and the beginning all in one, Alpha and Omega. As their hands clasp together, she realizes that _this_ is why Deaton picked her as Stiles' anchor. Not eros, but philia. She would always be there to support him, and vice versa. They would always be friends. But no more.

***

"Sheriff? You free?"

"Hmm?"

Sheriff Stilinski looks up from his desk, at his newest deputy leaning in the door. Youngish guy, kinda good looking if you noticed that sort of thing. Still had shaving cream in one ear. Green. Paul didn't like the kid's odds, honestly. Not in this town, not knowing what he did.

"There's a lady here to see you. Says she has coffee?"

And Paul sighs with a smile, and nods.

"Named Melissa?"

"Yeah, that's her."

"Show her in. And close the door behind you."

It's a matter of forty-five seconds before Melissa McCall is seated across from him, and they're left in private. And sure enough, she hands him a cup of coffee, exactly the same as what he ordered on their first coffee date. She's smiling, a small hint of color high up on her cheekbones, low down at her collar bone. And Paul finds himself smiling back. It's been so many years since he found himself reacting to a woman. Claudia still, after all this time, smiled over his shoulder, her picture hanging on the wall behind him. Brown hair and amber eyes and a chipmunk smile with dimples, gleaming out of a picture of springtime and health.

Melissa doesn't look at that picture. And Paul can't blame her, really. All relationships come with baggage, and the two of them have more baggage than most. This was the main reason he'd avoided asking her out on a date, or even seeing her casually, socially. It wasn't fair to her to make her deal with Claudia's ghost. But now, after the root cellar...well, baggage was relative.

"Another all-nighter?"

Her voice is low, soothing, and supportive, and Paul sighs in defeat and admission.

"It's really annoying, seeing how many crimes in this town were committed by werewolves," he growls, taking the coffee and sipping it slowly. Still hot. God bless her. "Especially after the Hale pack died. I had no idea Talia Hale had such a stranglehold on this town."

Melissa hums sympathetically, nodding at his conclusions.

"So...what? Lone wolves? Or roving packs riding through town on a thrill?"

"I don't know," says Paul helplessly. This was the one topic they hadn't been able to discuss the other day; too many people around to just casually drop the word "Werewolves" into the discussion. "I just don't know! I can't help but feel like Stiles is still keeping stuff from me...but even if he wasn't, I can't go to the governor and say, 'By the way, the reason our murder rate is so high is because _werewolves.'_ You know?"

"I know. Same thing on my end, honestly. The coroner isn't going to believe that. I can think of at least fifteen 'unknown' causes of death files still sitting in the hospital morgue." Melissa sips at her own coffee, looking pale and grim. But also surprisingly upbeat and positive. And Paul had to admit, being around her also got him feeling the same way. Like they were secret soldiers in a war that nobody else knew was being fought.

"So it's all a huge secret."

"As always," she agrees, cocking her head at him and smiling wryly. "This town has always thrived on secrets and lies. I mean, our biggest bank was embezzling funds from the power company, and whoops, there goes our economy when it's found out. We would have all been better off if it hadn't ever been discovered."

"Beacon Hills. A beacon for deceit."

"Yup."

She raises her paper coffee cup, and Paul does the same, in a macabre parody of a toast of good luck. And when they both drink, it's deliciously ironic. Irony tastes of lattes, apparently.

"Did you ever meet Talia Hale?" he asks randomly, and he's not surprised to see Melissa nod.

"Once. A fundraiser for the fire station. It was...2001? 2001-...or 2002? Somewhere in there."

"2002." Paul remembers it well. He and Claudia had both been there, before she'd been diagnosed, before she'd gotten sick. "November 2002."

"Riiiight," drawls Melissa, nodding at the memory. "And I remember thinking to myself, wow she's got a really nice Chanel suit. She walked around like she owned the place, flute of champagne in her hand, and just _staring_ at people."

Paul chuckles and nods.

"Yeah, I remember. And she came up to me and tucked a check in my pocket. For the fire station."

Melissa looks suitably impressed.

"A check for how much?"

"Blank."

"...You are _kidding_ me."

"Nope." Paul could remember that slim hand against his chest, those clever fingers dipping into his shirt pocket like butter on a hot grill. He'd gotten the impression that this was a woman who was used to getting her way, and doing it anonymously. So of course she'd picked the most honest policeman in the room to be the courier for her good deed. He'd just been a deputy at the time, but she still chose him.

Melissa grins, and leans in closer.

"How much did you fill it in for?"

Paul smirks and leans in as well, both of his hands cradling his coffee.

"Exactly how much the fundraiser was short at the end of the night."

And Melissa bursts into delighted laughter, nodding appreciatively at Paul's actions.

"If I recall correctly, they were short just about a thousand dollars!"

"Yup."

That makes them both laugh, as Talia Hale's generosity beamed at them over the years. And Paul once again puts together the puzzle pieces of this odd town. Talia Hale ran this place. And Paul had to wonder what the old Sheriff knew about the supernatural, the werewolves, the druids. Would he have learned it all when he stepped up, if it hadn't been for the Hale family's murder? What would this world have looked like if Talia and Justin Hale had seen the betrayal coming, had seen the machinations of Kate Argent against their oldest son? Their laughter dies off slowly, awkwardly, and Paul's entire frame seems to tense, as if facing some invisible, unbeatable enemy. And maybe he was.

"Has anything ever been simple?"

Melissa looks up at Paul's quiet question, her heart skipping a beat. And then, she sets her chin, tilts her head, and frowns.

"No."

And oddly enough, that makes Paul feel infinitely better. His shoulders drop, relaxing, and he leans forward on his desk, elbows first, a wry grin on his face. Their eyes meet, and they both feel it, the moment, the need, the attraction. Nothing was ever simple, not even this. And that's what made it worth it in the end.

"Well, good, I'm glad it's not just me."

And that was the cue she'd been waiting for. Deliberately putting her coffee down on the desk, Melissa stands up, circles around to Paul's side, pushes his chair back, and slides into his lap. It's an incredibly bold move, but she's rewarded for it: Paul's arms loop around her waist, fingers linking behind her back, even as her arms circle his shoulders. Their first kiss isn't what she was expecting at all: It's _better._

And best of all, it isn't interrupted. Narrative convention be damned, if the sheriff wants privacy, then damn it he gets privacy. Rank hath its privilege, after all. And when it finally parts, she's giggling like a school girl, and he's blushing redly around the tips of his ears.

"...Tell me you're not working the swing shift tonight?" he murmurs against her lips, refusing to let her go just yet.

"I am not working the swing shift tonight," she answers dutifully, her entire face lit up with happiness.

"Your place or mine?"

"...Neither."

There's a pause as they both work through that answer, and Paul gets there a second after she does.

"Good point. Too many things going on."

"I'm sorry, but I am not putting up with your son accidentally finding us out. Not just yet."

And that makes them both burst into giggles, because Stiles was honestly the least of their worries when it came to this. Paul's fingers are trailing up and down Melissa's back in a surprisingly intimate gesture, and it just feels so right. Like they've been waiting for just this moment to arrive their whole lives.

"...Motel in Hill Valley?"

"You're the smartest sheriff in the land," she croons back, nodding her assent.

"I do deserve a night off."

"Oh, you think you're not gonna be working tonight? I'll make you work."

"I have no doubt about that at all."

And Melissa is delighted, because flirt game apparently strong. Victory.

***

Aiden has given up his end of the search, and honestly Scott was happy to see him lope off into the woods alone. The tension was unbearable, and he knew a showdown was coming. But now was definitely not the time for it. Let the guy go lick his wounds for a little longer, maybe then tempers would cool off. Because Scott knows that, when the explosion happens, Aiden wouldn't walk away from it intact. And Scott has absolutely zero interest in becoming a killer.

Scott is trying so hard, so desperately hard to be the True Alpha. It's like hanging by a slim thread, and having to hold yourself upright over a yawning crevasse. It's more than just human-style tension now, it's like the tension of a steel cable holding up a span of bridge. Relaxation apparently isn't something a True Alpha can feel. But above all, he just feels tired. It's a slow, sinking sensation, just behind the bridge of his nose, dragging his eyelids down, making his jaw clench. Which only makes the tension that much worse. The others haven't noticed yet, but he has. He's suddenly the one encouraging everybody to get their game on, to focus. He's _told Stiles to focus._ And Stiles has listened. For the first time in his life, he's actually being listened to, he's actually becoming a leader. The boy who has let life just happen to him, let his best friend lead the way in their shenanigans, let the love of his life make the decisions in their relationship, let everybody else around him set the standards he should live up to...

Now he is the standard. Now he is the bridge. Now he is the one that everybody looks to for answers, for guidance.

And he feels like he has none to give.

Isaac and Allison are nearby, he can scent them on the wind, can hear their (mostly silent) footfalls through the soft carpet of fallen pine needles and dead leaves. But for just a moment, Scott is alone, sitting on the edge of the lake, his chin hooked over his knees. He feels ridiculous at the moment, honestly. Living the ultimate 'lonely at the top' cliche. He knows this is just the scar tissue around his heart, egging him on and tormenting him. The residual effect of a sacrifice he made gladly, and would make again if the situation called for it. He'd do it not only for his mother, but for any member of his pack. Even Ethan, or Aiden, or Danny, the ones who aren't as connected to him yet.

Then, Allison's scent changes, and so does Isaac's. And Scott freezes. What...oh. _Oh._ Jeez, and he thought he'd been hormonal with her back in the day. Rolling his eyes, he continues to stare back out at the lake, letting this new problem roll over his mind, back and forth, like waves lapping at rocks, anonymous and innocuous pebbles on the shore.

***

"You're stalking."

"I'm not."

Allison is trudging through the woods, on high alert, a ring dagger tightly clutched in each fist. Something is out here killing people again, and she won't have it. Not with her new code. Not with her father still not returning her call. If anything's happened to him, she will personally find who or whatever was responsible and make sure they never hurt anybody ever again, she'd stop their heart, she'd pulp their brain, she'd...

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stalking."

She huffs an impatient breath out and spins back on Isaac, her eyes glinting with annoyance.

"And stop that, too," he points out, meeting her eyes for the briefest of seconds before glancing back down again. He's got fight in him, of course. But he's also a naturally shy personality. His body language screams submissive, from the dropped gaze, to the hunched shoulders, to the stiff arms and awkward knees.

"And what am I doing?" she snaps at him, taking that submission in a way that she knows she shouldn't. Their history isn't exactly the cleanest thing in the world, after all, and his history is a horror. But still, she accepts the dominant role he hands her, her voice becoming brittle and forceful and insistent.

"You're wearing that face."

"What face?"

"The face you were wearing when you stuck those things in my kidneys."

Isaac looks back up at her again, and the submission is momentarily gone, which makes her gasp. He gestures with his chin at her daggers, his eyes dark and distant and hard. And her facade crumbles for just a brief moment, before she re-holsters the offensive things with trembling hands.

"Isaac..."

And then he's there, at her side, pulling her into a tight embrace and supporting her again. Just as she crumbles, he's there for her. She realizes just how much she's come to rely on both Scott and Isaac for these moments, since her life completely changed and fell apart since January. It's now October. Ten months. Ten long months, ten full moons, and she's gone from innocent teenage girl to...this. Nominal head of a hunting clan that no longer exists, collapsing under the weight of her demons. Isaac has become her pillar, holding her up, like Stiles' metal baseball bat had held up the collapsing Nematon...

Allison needed no help to have a darkness around her heart. She was an Argent. Darkness came with the territory, as Isaac has just reminded her.

"I'm sorry."

As if those two little words could erase all the red and black and purple pain off her hands, the pain she's felt and dealt.

"It's okay."

And somehow, with his arms around her, it is. When he kisses her, it's not erasing their past, but acknowledging it, and sweeping it aside. It honestly doesn't matter anymore, because they've discovered each other. Scott's involvement...well, that still doesn't seem quite real to either of them yet, so they cling to each other for now. And this was why he'd anchored her in that tub of ice, been there for her to pull her back to the world of the living. His anchor was his father, yes...but Allison was his gift for surviving his father.

"...Scott's gonna tell us to focus again," she manages when they part the kiss, a small grin on her face.

"I am focused," is Isaac's cheeky answer, grinning back at her, their noses brushing lightly.

"Focus on finding the...thing. Whatever it is."

"Well, that's no fun at all..."

Of course, that's right around the time that _it_ happens.

Later, Scott describes it as a low, one-note trumpet-like sound. Allison hears it as a voice, singing a single note, crooning and mournful. Isaac swears it's like the howling of a true wolf, only different, monotone. The three of them hear something, and none of them can agree on what _exactly_ it is. But it keens out over the lake, echoing off the trees, just on the edge of hearing. Like the drone of an airplane, coming over the horizon. You know its there, but it could be coming from any direction, your ears not adjusted yet. It's beyond disorientating, and it causes Scott to scramble to his feet, Isaac and Allison to spring away from each other. Her daggers make a reappearance, and Isaac's claws to extend viciously. 

Scott's up and moving a second later, darting unerringly through the preserve toward his lovers. Isaac knows it's his Alpha and orients toward the movement without fear. Allison tenses, but relaxes slightly as she sees Scott appear through the trees. They end up in a tight triangle, back to back, each protecting the other from an unseen, but definitely heard, entity. Enemy? Monster? Or just a trick of their imaginations?

The sound fades eventually, but it's lasted longer than anything human - or werewolf - could manage.

"What the hell was that?" Isaac finally asks, when the silence stretches out for just a moment longer than comfortable. 

"Wait, listen," says Allison, holding up one hand. "The birds. They've all stopped chirping."

The silence in the forest is absolute, not a living thing moving in the aftermath of that unearthly call. All that's audible is the three teenagers breathing, their hearts and pulses intermingling into one solid, wet drumbeat of life. Scott closes his eyes, letting scent and sound take over for sight. He ironically remembers Derek's words, his words about instinct taking over, about trusting his senses. He closes out Allison's heartbeat, and Isaac's, two of the heartbeats that mean the most in the world to him. And he listens, listens with every ounce of his being, extending his new power to its limit. There's a faint, distant splash...

And then footsteps. Measured, even footsteps through the undergrowth, leaving the lake, and headed unerringly right toward them.

Scott and Isaac both wolf out immediately, their eyes glowing red and amber. Even in the light of day, it's terrifying, or would be to anything or anybody who didn't know werewolves were a thing. Allison shifts her stance slightly, raising her daggers and scanning the treeline, ready for anything.

Or...almost anything.

Scott and Isaac both recognize the scent and shift back to fully human, stunned and a little guilty. Allison has a split second to react to that, before she's stunned and guilty herself.

"Dad?"

Chris Argent steps out from behind a tree, his stony face even more unreadable than usual. He's bone dry, dressed in his muted hunter colors, and armed to the teeth as usual. The look that he gives Scott and Isaac is murderous, but that's certainly nothing new. They would have been more freaked out if he'd smiled, looked happy to see them. So the werewolves aren't suspicious at all...

"Allison."

It's not a question, because Chris has given up questioning his wayward daughter. She shrinks away, her arms dropping to her sides, the daggers doing their disappearing act again.

"What are you doing out here?" Her voice is trembling, but trying to be strong, her usual MO. Scott, who's had Mr. Argent's guns in his face before, doesn't so much as twitch. Isaac, on the other hand, reaches over and take's Allison's hand. Chris's jaw ripples with tension, and he looks away.

"Hunting," is his terse answer, his eyes hooded and dark. "I'll see you at home. Or maybe I won't, I just don't know anymore. Scott, Isaac."

With a horrible, grudging respect, both werewolves nod at the hunter, protecting their mate wordlessly as her father moves past them, and away.

The birds resume their song as Chris Argent disappears toward the road.


	5. Chapter 5

Being evil really is very difficult. Peter imagined keeping an evil diary, actually. It would read a lot like that Bridget Jones thing, he thinks to himself with a chuckle. _Day 19, v. evil again, managed to steal candy from baby and tie a v. attractive woman to rr tracks. Still the prettiest._ He's snickering to himself as he moves around his apartment. His _evil_ apartment. Because he truly is so very evil.

God, those children drove him crazy. Three seconds thought into his motivations and they'd agree with him. Especially Stiles. Ah, Stiles, you sack of wasted potential. But then again, now that he's had time to regroup, reassess and rethink, going after Scott McCall is a one-way ticket to suicide. The kid is blessed, or something, with all the stupid, blind luck in the universe. Besides, Peter's already died once, thanks, and has no interest in a repeat performance. No, he has to _buy_ his way into the pack, and get himself in the place of second. And then, just wait. Scott's luck will run out eventually. Or, failing that, he'd just corner one of those idiot twins, rip their throat out, and he'd be an Alpha again. Done and done.

He pulls himself an espresso shot with quick, competent hands, and settles down on the sofa. Tonight's episode of Homeland is promising to be an excellent one, and he's invested. A man has to have some guilty pleasures, after all. This apartment, some quiet (and thoroughly illegal) income, and what passes for intellectual television in this day and age. Although Breaking Bad is starting to get his attention as well...

The show is put on pause when he hears a knocking at his door. A million possibilities run through his mind, and he tenses, but he gets up and answers it. The one possibility he never considered, however, is the one that's on the other side of the door. He can't help the flash of blue in his eyes, the snarl on his lips, the deep growl in the pit of his sternum as he spots her.

"... _You._ "

"Peter Hale. Darling, you look magnificent for a dead man."

There's a long moment of silence as they stare at each other, his eyes widening ever so slightly, his body tensed for flight. She, on the other hand, is wearing that trademark sardonic grin. With a casual toss of her head, her Veronica Lake hair resettles with a bounce on her shoulder, and she cocks an eyebrow at him.

"Well? Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"And if I didn't? I'm sure you'd make me."

But he steps aside, and she laughs at his protestation. It's a light, airy chuckle, a good octave higher than her speaking voice, like the sound of a narrow brook over crystalline rock.

"Oh, dear. That conversation again?" she asks, setting her clutch purse down on the little table next to the door. Peter can't help but sneer at her, with her fashion sense stuck in the 1940s, and her voice...god damn her voice. She continues as she strolls further into the place, taking in every detail, missing nothing. "You know perfectly well I can't _force_ people to do anything they don't already want to do."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" He closes the door behind her, and watches her go, like a guard dog with an interloper in his territory, but an interloper with a steak in hand. Which way would this bounce, and who'd end up with the steak?

She sighs dramatically, settling down on his sofa primly, with crossed legs. Her legs aren't slender, though; they're muscular, stocky and powerful, and her stockings are no disguise for that at all. "That's the truth. I don't force or bewitch anybody, regardless of what you've rationalized over the years. No no. All I do is take what's already there, and just give it a little _nudge._ "

"A little nudge."

"A very little nudge. You were attracted to me. You still are. I just encouraged you in the right direction. My direction."

He hasn't stepped away from the door, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. She finally shoots him an impatient look, and crooks one finger at him.

"Really, Peter! Stop acting like I'm going to rape you right here on your own sofa, you know me better than that. Offer me a drink and at least listen to what I have to say?"

Peter sighs. Well, if this is going to be a social call, he might as well play the part. Even if he wants nothing more than to rip her throat out with his teeth, as his nephew loves to say. Strolling into the kitchen, he pours out a tall, clear glass of water from the filter in his fridge. And then he takes the Morton's kitchen salt out of the pantry, pries open the silver spout, and dumps a good six tablespoons of salt in the glass. And his guest sighs happily, a brilliant grin lighting up her face.

"Darling, you remembered!"

He shrugs pragmatically, trying to keep as neutral an expression on his face as possible. "If you're here again, you're in the reservoir again. Which, as I recall, is fresh water."

"You're so considerate," she coos, taking the water from him, their fingers brushing for a brief moment. And she snorts at his shiver of revulsion, his skin almost visibly crawling at her touch. "You're really being quite silly. I didn't think our breakup was _that_ bad."

"Yes it was." His voice is flat, and he moves as far away from her as possible now, loitering in the kitchen with his arms across his chest.

"...Hmmm. I wonder what your basis for comparison is." Lifting the glass to her lips, she takes four long pulls, her throat puffing out for just a moment, gills flashing open on the sides as the salt water goes down. And then she looks back up, as she sets the empty glass aside: Her eyes are glowing bright green, like the edge of a bioluminescent deep-water fish. And then they're back to normal, indigo and dark and unreadable.

"What are you doing here?" Peter insists, leaning up against the kitchen island.

"Here in Beacon Hills? Or here in your apartment?" she counters, that wry smirk back on her face.

"Both. And you can knock off the femme fatale act, I'm immune now."

She hums, but not in agreement with his statement. It's more amused that he could ever, ever think he was immune. Nobody was immune. Except one, except _one..._

"I'm here again for the same reason I was here before."

Peter looks startled at that, the mask slipping just the tiniest bit, before he composes himself.

"That wild goose chase? Again? Really, my dear, there's such a thing as knowing when you're licked."

"Admire my restraint by not dropping the obvious line into this conversation," she purrs, her dark eyes dancing with amusement. And Peter can't help but chuckle a bit himself...and then stop the chuckle cold, because she's _doing_ it again, forcing his reactions, getting under his skin.

"You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not here, and never has been." He allows himself the tiniest sliver of smugness to creep into his tone, because of all the history here, and how thoroughly the bitch failed last time.

She senses that smugness, and huffs an impatient breath out through clenched teeth. "And you'd know all about barking, wouldn't you?"

"Dog jokes. Original. Shall I delve into fish stick humor? Just to keep up with you, of course."

She waves that off impatiently, pacing across his apartment, her legs scissoring sharply, her spike heels clacking against the hardwood floor. Peter looks her up and down, and is not really all that surprised: she hasn't aged a day since he saw her last, when he was just a young man, before the fire. She was still impeccable, beautiful, perfectly groomed and dressed, and completely in control. Except now, when her pacing exposed her need, her insane determination. Of course, Peter could appreciate a little insane determination himself.

"The Nematon is _awake,_ " she reminds him, her honey vodka voice snapping with just a little edge to it now, raising a fifth, with a strange harmonic to it. "Splashed with the blood of the innocent and the impure. The virgin and the whore. When you followed Jennifer Blake there to _ensure_ she died, that's exactly what she was counting on! Not necessarily it being you to deliver the final blow, but she was ready for it to fall. She was the final sacrifice, and always had been."

Peter reels with a sense of vertigo, because that honestly hadn't occurred to him. When he'd killed that Blake woman, she'd been mewling to the tree about it saving her again...a ploy. That was the bleating of an injured animal, deliberately calling the predator to end it. Knowing her blood had to be forcibly taken...His hands grip the edge of the counter tightly, turning his knuckles white. That woman had been smarter than anybody ever gave her credit for. But for once, he keeps his mouth shut, doesn't snark off some witty comment. He wants to let the siren keep going, give her enough rope to hang herself with. And she glares at him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously before she continues.

"But before that, those three children _immersed themselves in water._ Poseidon below! They might as well have handed me an engraved invitation!"

"I know." Peter's voice is calm, and low. He's never seen her this passionate before, this involved. So either she's putting on one hell of an act, or this time she really _is_ close to getting what she wants. Either way, this is not good. "My question is, how the hell do you know all this?"

"I have my sources," is the mysterious answer, her voice dropping back down to its usual alto. "The pull of the Nematon is knowledge enough, but I did my research before knocking on your door. I'm not stupid, Peter."

"Neither am I. ... _Doris._ "

She freezes, the curved line of her shoulders jerking up defensively. But then she forces herself to relax.

"That's right, I did tell you my name back then," she muses out loud, as if she'd forgotten. "Shows how much I trusted you. See, Peter? We're two of a kind, you and I."

"I'm nothing like you."

And she laughs. She laughs right in his face, a rich and mocking laugh, just a little too loud and a little too long. When she composes herself, she's got a nasty look on her face, the inhuman becoming all too human in that moment.

"As the kids are so fond of saying these days, _bitch, please!_ "

Peter draws what's left of his dignity up, like a villain wrapping his cape around his shoulders, and he sets his jaw. So she rolls her eyes and settles back down on the sofa again.

"Fine. Name one thing I've done that you haven't," she insists, pointing one perfectly manicured finger at him.

"Manipulated somebody into sex and doing your bidding," is his prompt and smug and holier-than-thou answer. Which elicits another laugh from Doris. 

"Oh? You didn't have sex with the banshee? When you _manipulated_ her into bringing you back from the dead on the Worm Moon?"

"...Your sources are pretty thorough. But no, I didn't have sex with Lydia."

Because Peter does have to admit, the temptation to take Lydia that night had been fairly high, and it was only his extensive injuries that had stopped him. Damn the woman for pointing that out. He sighs, recognizing defeat. She wouldn't be knocking all his defensive walls down for no purpose, after all. And she's already tipped her hand as to what she's after. It's so obvious she wants his help. Now all they have to do is negotiate the price. But she surprises him, by looking surprised herself.

"You didn't? Must have been off your game. By the way, I want to meet that girl. She's my sister, after all."

"...How do you figure that?" Oh, this he has to hear, the logic behind that.

"Banshees, sirens, we're all the same deep down," she answers, waving that off as trivial once again. "And besides, she's worth knowing. In a very Biblical sense."

"You make me sick."

"Why, because I'm better at this game than you are? I thought I taught you better than that, Peter. I came to you and gave you my heart, and what did I get in return? That sister of yours nearly killing me!"

Peter smiles at the memory, his bright eyes sparking at her, stealing that wry smirk of hers.

"Yeah, she nearly did. Should have finished the job, too."

Peter's gratified to see that Doris' calm mask slips once more, a murderous rage making her go pale, like the underbelly of a fish. Her skin glistens in the recessed lighting of his apartment, slimy and cold. Will it come to blows? Now, finally? He curses himself for a fool, as she's always been stronger than him. Damn it, he doesn't want to have to clean blood off the floor. Especially not his own. It never really gets all the way out. But he also has to admit, he feels _alive_ right now, excited, ready to battle. He hasn't felt that way in a very long time.

...Damn it, she's playing him again.

She sees that realization hit him, and she backs down too, the smirk reappearing. And he bows slightly to her, an apprentice in the presence of a master. Smoothing her dress back down, she settles on the arm of his sofa, extending one lithe arm to him, hand out, palm down. He hesitates for one moment, and then takes her hand in his own. This time, he doesn't shiver at her touch. The game is over, and he's lost, like he lost with her before. At least he's graceful in defeat.

"Peter, darling," she murmurs. "If our breakup had really been bad? I would have simply killed you when I got sick of you. But I never did. And I never could."

He knows that, has known it from the day he first met her. He's not sure if that makes him special, or if she's playing an even longer game than he could grasp. "Is this your way of saying you want me back?"

"This is my way of saying that I want your help. Without you, I can't get what I want. Please, darling. Please?" Her indigo eyes gaze soulfully up at him. Even when he can sense the trap being sprung, even when he knows what she's capable of, still he walks into it, still he succumbs. So much for being immune. But he at least tries to mitigate the damage, tries to get some of his own back.

"I suppose this is the part where I say 'what's in it for me' like some gun moll from one of your beloved gangster movies?"

That gets another bright laugh out of her, her hand tightening around his in a grip just shy of painful. He scores a point by not flinching.

"You can't be my moll, you're a fella," she teases him, her honey vodka voice dipping into an accent for just a moment, like something out of a movie from 1940. "I'm the dame, the frail, the tomato. Get your terms right."

"The question still stands. What is in it for me?"

"Your status as an Alpha. Keeping your beloved pack intact. And maybe a bit of a surprise on the Hunter's Moon."

And that makes Peter's heart start racing, because the Hunter's Moon is less than two weeks away, the day before Halloween. It's a convergence of power that hasn't been seen in decades, and now the Nematon is awake. She watches him as the implications hit, the wheels and cogs in his too-sharp head turning and grinding and figuring it all out. 

"Oh," he says, a slow smile transforming his face. "I see."

And she smiles at him in answer, her dark eyes shining like sunlight filtering through deep water.

"I thought you might."

***

Allison's pacing the apartment, restless and worried. After weeks of neglecting her father, their bond, she'd finally been called on it, and it _hurts._ Scott and Isaac had sent her on her way, with a kiss each, to follow her wayward father home and have the necessary confrontation. Or maybe she was the wayward one. 

She feels like she doesn't have a family anymore. Just...a sense of loss and a sense of isolation. Her ties to the pack, to Scott and Isaac, were getting stronger and stronger, and all her Hunter training was now at their disposal. 

Oh. _Oh._ So that's why Argents always killed themselves if they were bitten. So the wolves wouldn't know their strategy, their code, their ways. She's broken more rules than she's ever even known about. But then again, so did Gerard. Allison has a quiet fear, one that she's never even expressed to Scott; she fears ending up in Gerard's place, driven crazy by the power lust, by the need to be _perfect._ Her fingers trail over her father's Celtic knot table as she paces, her mind whirring with possibilities, with conflicts, with need.

The front door opens, and Chris lets himself in. She straightens, faces the door like she's facing a firing squad, and waits. When her father enters the room, neither of them flinch, but there's a pause, a moment where the unspoken screams louder than a siren. And then he's shucking off his light coat, hanging it on the hook behind his study door.

"Where were you last night?"

Her voice is quiet, and oh, what a reversal. The daughter asking the father about his activities. They both see the irony inherent in the situation, but neither is laughing.

"I could ask you the same thing."

Chris unholsters his gun, sliding the stock back and removing the chambered bullet, before popping out the rest of the ammo clip. He does it automatically, muscle memory, hardly paying attention to his movements. Allison watches him carefully, eyes trained along his hands and wrists.

"I was with Isaac and Scott. Of course."

"Of course. I won't ask what the three of you got up to. I have a feeling I can guess."

And that, that's just pure disappointment in his tone. Not for the fact that the two boys in question are werewolves, but that there were two boys in her life, period. It's a more universal disappointment rather than a specific one, and Allison feels the blood rushing to her face and ears as she blushes hotly.

"I've answered you. Now it's your turn, daddy."

Chris pauses, and then smirks wryly.

"You only call me daddy when you want something," he observes without looking at her, punching in the seven digit combo to his gun safe. He doesn't bother hiding it; Allison knows all the combinations. Allison _set_ all the combinations. As the only surviving female Argent, she's in charge, after all.

"I just want to know where you were. And why you were at the lake today."

Chris is quiet for a moment, torn in multiple directions all at once. But the spell that he's under finally wins out in the end, his loyalty transferred away from Allison and the clan, and towards his new love. Love. Yes, love, beautiful golden yellow love, indigo and sweet and song...

"I was out with a woman last night," he answers truthfully, finally looking up at his little girl. His baby girl, still too young, lost forever as far as he was concerned. "And after our date was over, I went out on patrol. Protect those who can't protect themselves, remember?"

Allison's more than just stunned now. She hadn't expected the truth to be so blunt, and to include another woman in her father's life. She blinks, taking in a breath, her jaw hanging loose as she processes that.

"You were out on a date?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Allison isn't sure if her father is mocking her now, and the tears well up bright and hot in her eyes. It feels so damn _disrespectful_ and wrong. And he's calm about it, so deadly calm. She can't answer for a moment, during which Chris shrugs and makes his way to his desk, his back to her, like she's now totally unimportant to him. That prompts Allison to finally speak, her voice trembling in the middle of her sentence.

"Mom's...only been dead five months. And you're out on a date?"

If that stings, Chris doesn't show it. Instead, he continues to rifle through the bills on his desk, noting them in order of due dates. Like that's the only thing occupying his attention now.

"Your mother made a choice. A choice which I don't expect you to ever understand. I'm a grown man, and now unmarried. I'm allowed to go out on dates. And I'd appreciate it if you afforded me the same respect that I afford you and your... _choices._ "

And that might as well have been an open-handed slap to the face. Allison reels like it is, staggering back against the table, where just three short weeks before, she'd seen the evidence of the sacrifices. It knocks her breathless, the disdain her own father has for her now.

"Daddy..."

He finally turns back to her, and raises an eyebrow. And his eyes are surprisingly warm. Surprising, because his tone is so cold.

"Allison, I'm your father and I love you. I also don't approve of your lifestyle. Don't ever ask me to. I will feed and clothe and house you until the day you're eighteen. And then after that...well, that's up to you. You're an Argent. And we have a code, a code which too many people have broken. My father, my sister, your mother, and now you. If I'm the only one left who lives by that code, so be it. But be well aware, the second you become a werewolf, is the second you're no longer my daughter. Just like Victoria was no longer my wife the moment she was bitten. I hope I've made myself crystal clear. We're done with this conversation, now."

And just like that, he spins on heel and leaves the room, headed for the kitchen. He's making coffee, making breakfast, like he didn't just practically disown his daughter.

Allison's crying properly now, hating herself for her weakness. Cold and clinical, that's how Argents are supposed to deal with emotional compromises. She can feel her mother's disapproving stare over her shoulder, practically hear the sneer in her voice. _Don't cry! Crying about the truth is pointless. Your father is absolutely right. He's right, he's right, he's right..._

Slowly, calmly, Allison dries her tears. He's right. But it changes nothing. She's chosen, chosen her dear wolves, her pack. She made the choice in January, when she saw Scott's transformation, and stayed with him regardless. She makes her way into her room, and robotically starts to pack. Her clothes, her books, all that she'd salvaged from her thorough trashing of her room when her mother died. It goes into her large duffel bag, along with her collapsible crossbow and ring daggers. (Can a girl really ever have too many ring daggers?) Her father's words about 'feeding, clothing and housing' her are what stuck out the most; all she can take from that is resentment, that Chris resents having to care for her after what she's done. So...she won't do it anymore. Isaac's apartment is paid for, paid by the insurance payout he got from his father's death. She'll move in with him, get a job...school? Unnecessary. GED, then. She'll make it work, somehow...

She turns to leave, and Chris is standing silently in the doorway, tears rolling down his face.

And that breaks her, breaks her properly, and she collapses into sobs, her too-heavy bag sliding to the floor with a thump. And then her father's arms are around her, and they're falling to their knees, clinging and mourning together. It's several long, heartbroken minutes later that she finally manages to speak.

"Daddy..."

"Don't," he whispers hoarsely. "Just...don't go. We'll work this out, Allison. Okay?"

"Okay. O-Okay..."

She takes a hitching breath, and he does too, before reaching up and wiping away her tears with a tender thumb. Even now, he can't bring himself to let his baby go, in spite of her already being lost. Even if he ends up clinging to her empty shell, he'll cling to that. The Argents will not fall.

***

Derek collapses into his new favorite chair. It's odd, to have a _new_ favorite chair. Favorite chairs are supposed to be old and worn, and have suspicious stains on the upholstery. But all the furniture is new, all the things in his life are new, with a few major exceptions. He wishes his sister was one of those exceptions. She should be old, familiar, known, family and pack. But instead, it's like there's a wall up between them, and he can't scale it. She's blood, but not family, not after six years of absence. Not after she's pulled well away from him. He knows what's coming, but he can't quite bring himself to ask her the obvious question.

He's tired. He's just straight up goddamn _tired._ Yanking his tie off with a low grunt, he tosses it aside and tries to force his muscles into relaxation. Werewolves can heal, yes, but muscles can still be tense, still ache with stress and exhaustion. Nobody has ever quite come up with a cure for that. Not for him, at least. He'd thought Colorado would be a fresh start, and a chance to get away. But his demons plagued him here, too. All the bad choices he's made, the deaths on his conscience, tormenting him. 

To say that Derek Hale was full of angst was to point out that the sea was a little damp.

There's usually too much going on for him to really focus on one particular thing. He'd kept himself busy, running around, distracted, occupied, working, organizing, putting together a nice home for Cora and himself. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he's got nothing to do. Nothing to do but brood and hate himself.

Jennifer's face appears in his mind's eye, her dark eyes accusing him, begging him, pleading with him. For the first time since Kate, he'd felt something, felt needed, loved. And it was a lie, like it always was a lie. Nobody would ever want him. Nobody would ever love him. He sighs, and rubs at his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, as if that could banish that sweet, lying face from his mind. Even her face was a lie, the biggest lie of all. And she'd used him. Hell, he even had to wonder if she'd put a spell on him of some kind, after he came to her with his injuries. He wouldn't put it past her, not anymore.

"You're breathing heavily again."

Cora's voice echoes from her room; that was the nice thing about werewolf hearing, they didn't have to have conversations face to face. But the downside was, yes, her hearing his respiration from close to thirty feet away, behind a closed door.

"Stop thinking about her. Get dinner going."

Without a word, Derek levers himself out of his new favorite chair, and moves to the kitchen. Like a somnambulist, he goes through the motions of cooking for his sister, his only remaining packmate. Pack without an Alpha. He puts two pieces of chicken in the oven, slathering them with italian dressing, and walks away. That's all he has the focus for right now, honestly.

But as he turns, Cora's there in the doorway, a blank look on her already inexpressive face. He wonders if she'd ever smiled before the fire; he honestly cannot remember.

"Derek...this is killing you."

"I'm fine," is his answer, cocking his head at her. Was this it? Was this where she would finally say the words?

Apparently it was.

"You need to go back to Beacon Hills."

And the words are said. He feels a sinking in his heart, and he closes his eyes, because he knows where this will take her, and him. So he tries to deny it, his voice weak and ineffective.

"There's nothing for me there."

"You're lying to yourself. Your pack is there. Your Alpha is there. Your life is there. This? Isn't working."

"What about you?"

"Derek. We both know I'm Omega. And I have been since the fire. But you're not. You still have a chance to be part of a pack. You still have a chance to find yourself again, to live your life."

And he scoffs at that, because what is his life, really? What is there in him that makes his life at all worth preserving anymore? 

"You're not Omega," he returns, choosing to focus on that. Which earns him a glare and a snarl from his baby sister.

"I am. You know I am. You've known it since that night in the basement of the school. You felt it then, and you still tried to force me into your pack. We're. Not. Pack."

And the world reshapes itself once again, as Derek loses another family member. He shudders at the pain of it, feeling that last tentative bond between them finally break and shatter. She composes herself, and swallows, because it affects her too, like losing a limb.

"You gave up your Alpha status to save my life. Now I'm giving up our bond to save yours," she whispers. "I've got everything I need, Derek. You've given me enough money to get through the next five years. You put the apartment in my name, remember? You knew this was coming. I'll be eighteen soon. I'll live my life, get a job. But you...you need to go."

He's about to answer when his phone rings, the basic ringtone that came programmed with the thing. Their eyes both dart to where it's resting in the living room, neither of them moving. The ringing eventually stops. But then it starts up again immediately, somehow more urgent than before. Clenching his jaw, Derek stomps to the phone and answers it impatiently.

"What?"

"Derek! Are you okay? I thought I felt something happen. Where's Cora? Is she all right?"

It's Scott McCall. Scott, his Alpha, who felt the bond between brother and sister break, even from four hundred miles away, and called immediately to make sure they were both okay. And Cora smirks at her brother, and spreads her hands. See, Derek? Your Alpha is worried about you.

"...She's fine," Derek answers abruptly, his voice gruff. "We're fine. I'm coming back to Beacon Hills."

"...Oh thank god, dude," sighs Scott, and Derek is honestly taken aback by that. He'll never get used to being called "dude" by anybody. "We really could use both of your help. Something's up..."

"Cora's not coming."

"Sorry, Scott!" Cora calls out from the other side of the room. And already Derek can see the improvement in her, the way she's standing up straighter, holding herself stronger. She's Omega, but that doesn't mean powerless. Had he really been dragging her down that badly? God, there's nothing he can do right, is there?

He's dragged out of his reverie by Scott's voice again, sounding concerned, but not puzzled.

"Oh. Is that...right. Okay. Well, we'll air out your loft. Hurry, okay? We might need your help sooner than later."

"Scott, what's going on?"

"Tell you when you get here. Get here soon."

And the connection goes dead as Scott hangs up. Derek is left staring at his phone, confused and perplexed and feeling bruised. But what else was new with his life? Everybody else always makes decisions for him. And maybe that was for the best; his decisions were never top notch, after all.

"My job," he protests one last time, and is startled to feel Cora's arms around him, hugging him goodbye.

"You hate that job. You hate Colorado. You hate this life. Go. Pack up and _go_ Derek. Please? You'll be happier there. You really will be. Go be with your brother. Go be with Scott."

And just like that, the decision is made. And oddly enough, Derek Hale starts to feel a small glimmer of hope in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Now that I've got Derek finally coming home, we can start getting into the meat of this story. Yeah, these first five chapters were all exposition, dear god. I apparently don't do anything by halves.


End file.
